You hide this from your friends and family because you’re not supposed to go to bed with fruit roll-up wadded in your hair, wearing a sports bra and the pants you wore to work that day. You’re supposed to go to sleep in something sexy and itchy, or maybe your husband’s work shirt and some sexy itchy underpants. And you’re supposed to be up for an evening of romping in the sheets, sans fruit roll-up in your hair, and this is supposed to happen while someone else does the laundry and makes 37 gluten-free dairy-free egg-free sugar-free cupcakes for the Earth Day celebration at school tomorrow.

I think these years when the kids are small and needy, and you’re kicking things up a notch in your careers, caring for your parents, trying to lose all that baby weight from six years ago, and have some semblance of a social life, are just going to be a shit show. If you and your husband have a quickie in the mudroom because that’s the only room in the house that doesn’t have a kid in it at the moment, then fine. If you have to sleep separately and each have a kid, a chicken, three kittens, and a salamander in your bed, great! No one’s going to judge you. I know many a dad who sleeps in a Disney Princess bed because his wife is cuddled up with their daughter. It happens. Do whatever works for you.

I do want to add, though, that it’s really hard to get kids to sleep in their own beds once you’ve started sharing with them. I’m a mean mom and I don’t let anyone sleep with me unless it’s an unusual circumstance, like they have the plague or daddy is out of town. Kids are climbing all over me all day long, and that time when I get in my bed with a book is something I look forward to all day. Try to take that space for yourself; it’s really, really nice.

Yes, absolutely. It’s weird.

I think you should just enjoy the memory of her examining your prostate and leave it at that. If you run into her another time, though, in another context, you may ask her out. (This is not permission to stalk her and “accidentally” run into her in the tampon aisle at CVS.) Also, I seem to recall some general rule, which clearly doesn’t apply in the land of Gray’s Anatomy, that doctors shall have no hanky-panky with their patients.

You just reminded me of a funny story about this hot medical student at my old pediatrician’s office. All the mommies loved him, and then one time my friend was at her doctor getting some moles checked or something equally unsexy and there he was, and it was so awkward she wanted to crawl under the table and remove her moles on her own.

You need to tell that mean girl who lives inside your head to shut up.

Sometimes, I totally do what you do. I make a new mom friend, or my husband and I meet a nice couple at a party, and we have a nice time, and then I go home and think the following:

Maybe I shouldn’t have told that story about how I threw up once in an airport garbage can.
Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten into that long public fight about whose fault it is that we drive a maroon minivan instead of something awesome.
Maybe it was too early in our relationship to describe my placenta in such vivid detail.
Maybe I shouldn’t have fallen down the stairs.
Maybe I should have kept my opinions about people who don’t vaccinate to myself.
Maybe I shouldn’t wear Spanx to a party and then spend the whole party telling my new friends that I’m wearing Spanx and they’re making my crack sweat.
Maybe I should have saved my N Sync “Bye Bye Bye” dance routine for an outside venue, and then I wouldn’t have broken that lamp.

And then I get myself all worked up about what an asshole I am, and how I’m going to die alone, and then I think, Well, I did and said all those things. And I can’t undo them, and I can’t unsay them, and besides, that’s who I am. If people don’t find me interesting and fun and charming, they’re clearly sad little people with terrible, sad little lives.

If you can, for no reason whatsoever, talk yourself into feeling like everyone hates you, then you can also talk yourself into feeling like everyone loves you. Do that, instead. And maybe read some books about self-esteem, or anything by Martha Beck. Self-help books are really helpful sometimes, and if you read them on your Kindle, it’s not embarrassing.

I’m about to suggest something shocking here, so hang on to your underpants: not only should you get her something, you should put some thought into it.

I know she made a passive-aggressive comment about your attachment parenting, and she sent your husband an email about women with borderline personality disorder and “accidentally” cc’d you, and she told your daughter that if she didn’t start going to church every week she was going to burn for eternity in the fires of hell and your daughter is only six, and she said your new haircut is nice if you’re a person who likes hair that looks like a helmet. I know. She did all these things, and more.

But she also gave birth to, and raised, a wonderful man who grew up to be your husband. For this, you can thank her, and buy her something she’ll really like.

What are your best logistical strategies for doing a lot of shopping? For instance, should I hit a bunch of stores in a day, or one store a day for a week? What are your suggestions for avoiding a defeatist, “I hate my body” attitude when trying on clothes? I know that’s a big question, but basically, I’m looking for ideas on staying upbeat and optimistic when it feels like I will never find a dress that fits well and looks good. Crying in H&M was kind of a low point, you know?

Your first mistake was going to H&M! Nothing in there fits anyone, and if you do finally find something in there that’s not proportioned for Gumby or a Weeble Wobble, you should purchase it for a one-time event, like a manure convention or a rave, and then throw it away. Shopping somewhere with better-quality clothes that are meant to last longer than a weekend is a great step toward finding things that fit well and look good.

If you’re on a tight budget, spend more money on basic things in neutral colors that you’re going to wear a lot. Black pants, navy pencil skirt, great-fitting blazer, good jeans, a black dress, a white shirt. Spend less on really distinct or trendy things; you’ll be able to buy a few more of those, and thus avoid being known as The Girl In The Purple Striped Shirt. (You think no one notices, but my sister used to work with this guy whose name I actually don’t even know because he wore the same pants every day and she called him Same Pants. I miss him. I wonder what ever happened to him and his pants.)

As far as the dressing room goes, UGH. Once I got stuck in a dress in Bloomingdale’s on a weekday morning and there was like no one in there and I almost had to call my husband to come get me out. And another time at Neiman’s the saleslady was super helpful until she came back and shouted to me over the dressing room wall, “We don’t have any bigger sizes left,” which made me cry and then sprint to the food court for six Orange Juliuses and the daily special plate at Wok and Roll. Do the following and you’ll be fine:

1. Don’t go into any stores where you can’t afford anything.
2. Don’t get help from any department store employee unless you really are about to suffocate.
3. Look beautiful when you leave the house. No messy ponytail or ugly underpants. Blow out your hair; slap on some mascara; maybe go for a walk or do some Jazzercise first so you feel in shape even if, technically, you’re not; wear cute shoes.
4. Bring a nice friend who will help you and be honest without hurting your feelings. (“Your legs look great, but it might be a little short for an office job!” vs. “You look like a two-dollar whore.”)
5. Try really hard not to hate your body. You’re a bright girl, you’re starting a new job, and just by your email I could tell that you’re dangerously attractive. Trying clothes on under hideous lights in rooms that smell like other peoples’ feet is enough to make Heidi Klum weep into her schnitzel, so really, don’t let it get you down.

Stomp on her foot and while she’s screaming, brush. Or you could go the less violent route and do what I do, which is pretend that there’s a monkey in her mouth and that it needs a bath, and you need to get in there and scrub it. Then pretend that the monkey won’t let you wash it and is jumping all around in her mouth so you can get all the teeth. I’ve used this technique on all three of my horrible stubborn children, and for whatever reason, they all thought it was totally hilarious.

My son got stung by a bee and is now so scared that it’s going to happen again that he won’t go outside. This, as you can imagine, is problematic. How can I help him get over it?

Once, a dog tried to bite my son’s face off, and for months afterward he would lose his shit every time we came within eight miles of a dog. No joke, once he refused to go into someone’s house because the people next door to them had a dog. I felt so bad for him, and I was also really annoyed by it, but that’s because I wasn’t the one who was suffering.

Be as reassuring as possible and give it time. Yesterday we were at a play date and the people had a St. Bernard and it was truly a gigantic dog, and my son walked right by it like it was a hamster instead of the hugest dog he’s ever seen. He barely noticed it. I was really happy for him.

Do you have any tips on organizing a playroom?

Our playroom is a nightmare. I haven’t seen my oldest in a few days; it’s possible he got lost in a pile of stuffed animals. Anyone who’s seen our playroom knows I have no business giving advice on this subject, but one thing that helps is throwing things away. Don’t ask the children if you can throw their toys away, just get rid of them. And unless it’s something awesome, you’re not going to be able to donate them. No one wants a pile of Happy Meal toys. Every night while they’re sleeping, get rid of their stuff, and then one day they’ll wake up and have one Lego and half a crayon left, and they’ll be sad, but your playroom will be tidy.

Things you may say:

I’m sorry for your loss.
I’ve been thinking of you.
I’m sorry, that sucks.
I feel so sad for you.
I’ve been thinking about you a lot and hoping you’re doing okay.
Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.
I remember your cat/mom/ex-wife fondly. One time, it/she meowed at me/made me oatmeal cookies/remembered my birthday, and that made me feel really good.
You must be going through a hard time right now, and I wish there were something I could do to make you feel better.

Things you may not say:

He’s in a better place now. (You don’t know that for a fact, and besides, what if in my mind the better place is next to me on the couch, not dead?)
Everything happens for a reason.
It will get better with time.
She was old/mean/sick for a long time/really into the supernatural so maybe she’s a ghost now.
My cat died once and it was terrible. She had this surgery where they had to stitch her eyeball to her leg, and I know your grandmother was a person and had 47 different kinds of cancer, but my cat was really awesome.
At least it was quick!
At least you got to say good-bye!

In the last two months or so, I’ve been freaking out and anxious. I’ve had anxiety in my life before, but this is new; like nothing is right and everything seems surreal. When I’m not feeling crazy, the situation sounds ideal, because our third child will have a peer-aged sibling and we wouldn’t be wondering about another kid a few years from now when we’re a little older. We have the financial resources to deal with this and are lucky to have loving, supportive family nearby.

So why am I feeling such dread and anxiety? I should want our kid, and don’t understand why adoption (which seemed really appealing last year) now freaks me out. My wife realized the other night that I wasn’t excited about this, and she got really upset. Her dream is to adopt and she thought I would be happy about our biological child, so she’s doubly disappointed and hurt. What is wrong with me?

Brad Pitt, is that you? Tell Angelina to just take a deep breath and sit down. All the dyes from her bright red lipstick must be seeping into her brain and making her crazy.

I think there’s nothing wrong with you. I even think it’s a little sad that you think there’s something wrong with you. Why are you feeling anxiety and dread? Because you have two kids and your wife wants to add two more at exactly the same time. That’s why. It’s a lot of work and a lot of stress and a lot of change for you, your wife, and the kids you already have.

It’s great that Angelina’s so excited to open her heart to another child, but if you’re not 100% into it, don’t do it. It’s not at all fair to the child you’re adopting, and if you’re resentful and angry and your marriage goes to shit because of it, Jennifer Aniston will be excited, but no one else will. (Kidding, Jen. I know you’re over him.)

Put your adoption plans on hold, have the baby, wait until it’s old enough to sit up on its own, and then talk to Angie about a good time to have another child, whether it’s a biological or an adopted one. If you have several opportunities now, I’m sure in a year or two there will be others. Ang might be disappointed and hurt at first, but it’s not all about her and her fertile womb and open arms; it’s about everyone in your family, current and future members included.

I love watching my kids sing and dance. They’re amazingly talented geniuses who can hold a tune and keep time like no other human beings on earth. But sometimes at a school show, the other children at the school have the nerve to get up there on the stage and force me to watch them sing and dance. It’s torture. So your husband must be the most patient person on earth or he’s completely insane, because if he has twenty kids in his class, and all twenty of them have at least one performance a year he has to attend, that adds up to…let me do the math here…TOO F-ING MUCH.

You’re right. He shouldn’t have to go to these things, and the idea of him paying to attend is just absurd. If the parents of these students are inviting your husband to a benefit because they want his support and to see his smiling, patient face, they should pay for his ticket. Otherwise, he can (and should) stay home, guilt-free.

Despite this, there is one rule I have broken twice, and I fear I’ll be kicked out of my apartment because of it: one of my roommates (who manages the relationship with the landlord) has caught me using marijuana in my bedroom on two occasions, and he is strictly anti-drug. I use marijuana to help me sleep and ease my anxiety, things that I’ve struggled with my whole life, and I’ve recently found it to be far more effective than the multitude of negative side effects that I experience with prescription anxiety and sleeping pills. The first time I was caught was a few months ago, and I was stupid about it. I thought that despite using a small portable vaporizer there would be no scent. He came to my bedroom and told me he could smell it and this was my warning. I apologized and told him I’d stop.

That was a lie. The other night after a particularly stressful day and anticipated sleeping problems, I decided I’d take the risk to vaporize again, and he came to my room about an hour later to inform me that he knew what was going on, and that he “couldn’t breathe” from the smoke (there was no smoke because it was a vaporizer, but he does not have any experience with pot). His eyes were watery and he told me we need to have an important meeting about this next week.

I justified the lie in my head by thinking that because it is otherwise a party house, no one seems to mind drinking or making noise, and because pot is generally so harmless and becoming increasingly socially accepted. But clearly it is a problem and my roommate has every right to live in a drug-free environment if he wishes. I suspect he is going to ask me to move out of the apartment. How can I convince him to let me stay?

You make a very compelling case here; if I didn’t already live with a bunch of guys, I would totally ask you to be my roommate. You haven’t mentioned if your name is on the lease or not, but if it is, you could definitely be like, Screw you! and fire up your vaporizer again. He can’t legally kick you out, I don’t think. But you did tell him you don’t do drugs and wouldn’t do drugs in the apartment, and it’s possible that he’s in the FBI or works at an elementary school or something that requires him to be far, far away from any illegal substances, and you should respect that.

It is worth a shot to stay, though, so you better beg and plead and promise you’ll never vaporize again, and maybe tell him how you used to take Ambien but it made you crazy at night and one time you took some and in a sleep-walking haze poured maple syrup all over a former roommate and then peed on him, so you’d really rather try something natural instead of chemical.

If he still kicks you out, then I’d start asking around this Melrose Place that you live in and see if anyone else has a room available, or if there’s an empty apartment that you could rent yourself and find some roommates for yourself who are vaporizer-friendly.

I’d like to point out that this problem could have been completely avoided if you took melatonin pills or went for a nice long run when you were feeling stressed. Or if you made pot brownies.