I spend a good portion of my mothering life in a state of “What the fuck just happened?”

The rest of the time I’m like “Wait. I’m supposed to care about that?”

You know, I’m looking at magazines and headlines and websites and since they’re all saying the same thing it APPEARS that these things are central to motherhood and maybe, since those things don’t really interest me, I’M THE WEIRDO.

[Which we all know is true. I’m just sayin’ I don’t think it's on account of my lack of interest Jessica Simpson’s birth plan.]

At first this bothered me. I thought I was the lost sheep among well-adjusted, um, mother sheep? Sorry. That went poorly. You know, like everybody was “in” on something and I was out. Like all the mothers are doing it, Janelle, what’s wrong with you?

It was like high school all over again, when the popular girls seemed to know how to wear make-up and date boys and I was like “let’s drop acid and listen to some Dead.”

What is with me and the bad examples today?

Anyway I admit it, I used to think something was wrong with me because I didn’t give a shit about most of the things mainstream media seemed to say were inherent in the experience of motherhood. It’s not that I have anything against these things, it’s just that they don’t have much relevance to my actual life, my daily experience of motherhood.

But as the years went by and I grew more secure in my own marginality, sagging breasts and generally poor attitude, I started meeting more and more women who can’t relate to “The Very Best Jogging Stroller!!” and “The Mommy Spring Must-Haves!”

In fact, I now know there’s a whole shitload of us in the same “Yeah, sorry, don’t give a fuck” boat.

So, as a helpful little guide (I’m so helpful, right?), I have composed a list of topics I keep seeing but just don’t care about.

Its official name is:

Shit I Don’t Care About but You Keep Talking About Anyway.
(and by “you” I mean “media,” obviously)

• “The cutest [insert holiday] Cupcakes” – Since I never, ever, EVER volunteer for any school-related event, celebration or activity, my need for appropriately themed cupcakes is pretty much nil. Furthermore, if faced with a cupcake need (beyond hormonally induced depression), I usually discover it approximately 8 hours before they’re due, resulting in an angry last-minute trip to the store and boxed cupcakes that are lucky to have frosting. If they have sprinkles I have achieved greatness.
• Best Yoga Pant – I don’t do yoga (though I’m always going to start “next week!”). If I did, it would be amazing and my pride would overflow and I’d be running around telling my friends what a badass I am. The type of pant I’m in would be rather superfluous at that point, don’t you think?
• “Matching Bras and Underwear” – If attending an event important enough that I’m contemplating my undergarments, I WOULD BE WEARING SPANX, which immediately renders the whole discussion meaningless. Do you see the problem here?
• “How to Please my Man in Bed” – Totally got this one already: Have sex with him.
• “How to Spice up My Marriage” – Have sex with him more than once a week. Why are we discussing the obvious?
• “How to Raise Gifted Children” – Honestly, at this point, I’m just hoping they don’t end up crackheads.
• “How to Plan a Week’s Worth of Meals” – I feel like we should start with 2 or 3 days and see how that goes before we get all carried away with “weeks.”
• “How to Get Along with Other Moms at Playgroups” – Should be renamed to “How to spot the mom as miserable as you are so you can get together and talk shit.”
• “How to Entertain Kids.” – NOT MY PROBLEM.
• “How to Engage Kids in Imaginative Play” – Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?
• “Baby Sleep Solutions.” – Lies, all lies.
• “Effective Disciplining Techniques” – Yes, thank you for the excellent ideas, which I will try so hard to adopt only to find myself 3 days later resorting to the old stand-by disciplinary technique of “yell, feel guilty, apologize, repeat.”
• “Favorite Baby Toys” – As much as you keep trying to convince me my baby will like [whatever] better than cardboard boxes, cell phones, kitchen utensils and/or the small chokable item she just discovered on the carpet, years of experience tell me otherwise and I no longer believe you.
• “Kate Middleton’s Maternity Outfits” – Also don’t give a shit about the maternity outfits of any other rich, skinny woman who looks better pregnant than I do not pregnant. Kthanksbai.
• Come to think of it, I also don’t care about their baby showers, nursery décor, strollers, weird-ass naming choices, or the $89.00 onesie they just purchased (with the ironic hipster slogan on the front).
• Any article with the word “vs.” in it (“Crib vs. Co-sleeping/Circumcision vs. Non/Bottle vs. Breast)” – WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M SOME SORT OF SADIST? All this article is going to do is result in the most insane horrific name-calling comment section you’ve ever seen. All the crazies come out for these fuckers. Please count me out.
• “How to have a Smooth Transition back to Work after Maternity Leave” - Replace “smooth” with “the least horrifying” or “least traumatic,” and we can talk.
• “How to Organize your House” – Reading an article as a first step to organizing my house is like sending an email to world leaders asking them to please consider world peace at their next staff meeting. NICE IDEA, completely ineffective.
• “How to Keep your Car Clean and Neat” – I’m sorry. Come again?
• “How to Nurse Discreetly” – Oh go fuck yourself.
• “Things you Shouldn’t Say in Front of Your Children” – I guarantee you that ship has sailed.
• “Food in the Shape of cute Animals” – I once made pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse. Then I felt weird inside for like a week. I’m pretty sure a vegetable panda would traumatize me for life.
• “How to make memorable holidays” – Um, “memorable” is not the problem. “Enjoyable” is the thing I can’t seem to find.
• “Easy Steps to Potty Training/Weaning/Sleeping alone” – Look, if you’re going to just make shit up, I feel like you shouldn’t be writing articles.

And now, my favorite topic of all time:  “How to be a More Confident, Guilt-Free Mother.”

This is pure beauty on account of the irony, because as we all know, the only way to achieve that is to STOP READING CRAP ABOUT MOTHERHOOD.

Boom.

I feel better already.

You?

I’m turning 34 tomorrow. I know, I know. I’m a baby.

Unless you’re under the age of 25, in which case I’m used up with one foot in the grave and should probably just throw in the ol’ towel now while I still have some dignity left.

Whatever.

To be honest, I get a little freaked out about my birthdays, not because I’m upset about getting old and therefore less hot (um, “less hot” is a condition I’ve grown rather accustomed to, thankyouverymuch) and more saggy (tits to knees, for the win!), or because I’m afraid to face my own mortality (I’m kinda happy just to be here).

But rather because I get a little irritated that I’m not “further along” in my existence – like I should be more or better or someplace else, you know, more “accomplished,” “advanced,” SUCCESSFUL. Whatever the fuck that means. I don’t know. I’m happy where I am. At least I think I am. I have you people. I like that.

But my birthdays are always accompanied by a vague irritation, a little stick in my side, a lil bastard sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear: “Janelle, you really should be more by now. You’re kinduva loser.”

I think this irritation is significantly increased by the fact that I spent a good portion of my adult life drunk, running around and around (and around and around) in tiny little circles (which felt very important at the time, FYI) – going nowhere, as they say, very, very fast.

So really, I’ve only been a grown up since 2009, but considering where I was then, it’s safe to say I’ve come a long way, and, once again, have nothing to complain about.

So that’s rad: When you set the bar really freaking low, you can totally be satisfied with minimally awesome conditions.

Wow, that sounds like a lot parenthood.

Anyhoo, as usual, since (as you know) I’m a radiant beam of positivity, I thought I would make up a list of all the things that suck worse than turning 34.

This is my version of “positive self-talk.”

I think you’ll agree with many of them.

Things that Suck More than Turning 34:

1. Being a crack head.
2. Eating lunch with Poppy Harlow.
3. Being Poppy Harlow’s son.
4. Growing up in Westboro Baptist Church.
5. Being born a female in Afghanistan.
6. Running a day care.
7. Finding yourself locked in a room with other people’s offspring. (Oh wait. That’s number 6.)
8. Finding yourself locked in a room with your own children. (Yes, that’s better.)
9. Tattooing small nautical stars all over your face whilst drunk.
10. Realizing you miscalculated and you’re actually 35. (Whatever bitch, I was born in 1979!)
11. Failing your Master’s Degree comprehensive exam. (Somebody hold me.)
12. Being born a male in Afghanistan.
13. Weighing 400 pounds.
14. Having 11 kids.
15. Driving home from the beach with sand in your bathing suit. (Seriously, do you remember that?)
16. Owning a yellow Labrador retriever who runs away from you at a softball game, breaking his collar, at precisely the moment your 2-year-old bolts off in the other direction and you realize you’re alone and totally and completely screwed because OMG the dog and OMG the child. So you start asking strangers to help you (because they’re all standing there motionless with a face like “Wow. Look at this unique unfolding of events.”) until an angel from on high comes over and says “I’ll get the kid. You get the dog.” And you run off and tackle the motherfucking Labrador like a ninja WWF wrestler. (Not that this happened to me last night.)
17. A world without the Grateful Dead.
18. Bigots.
19. A world without Tyler Durden, Jane Austen, Bill Murray, and/or my husband. (Um, that was a odd list.)
20. All things that hurt people.
21. Over-zealous baseball coaches.
22. And their evil parental cohorts.
23. Expressions like “the miracle of motherhood” and “I’m playing catch up,” and “at the end of the day” and “we need a paradigm shift” and…
24. BabyCenter forums discussing circumcision or sleep training.
25. Little girl shirts that say “Step Aside, Barbie.”
26. Implying that your child is a replacement for an emaciated plastic doll.
27. Making up cute, catchy new words, such as “brutiful.” (Sorry, Glennon, but REALLY? Have a little mercy.)
28. Peeing for the first time after giving birth.
29. The expectation that because I’m a mother I should give a shit about seasonal cupcakes and yoga pants.
30. Cleaning up dog diarrhea from the back seat of your car in a Safeway parking lot while the offending canine vomits at your feet while simultaneously trying to eat it.
31. Listening to people try to defend the conclusion that marriage equality is a bad idea.
32. The moment you realized you sneezed um, too hard.
33. PTA meetings.
34. Administrative staff meetings.
35. Okay pretty much any meeting.

And…the Number ONE thing that sucks worse than turning 34…yeah that’s right you guessed it…

NOT TURNING 34.

Because that would mean I didn’t make it past 33. And who wants that?

Really, it’s funny, right? That this is what we all want and don’t want: Getting older. It sucks. But the alternative sucks more.

So this is it, I guess. We just keep moving on and on and on until we aren’t moving on anymore, and every year we get a little closer to that moment, trying like hell to live in this one (Make it count! It may be all you’ve got! (no pressure, though)) — even when it’s a little grayer than expected, a little less glamorous and interesting and bright. Though in some ways, it’s way more so.

It’s the accumulation of all that I’ve ever been and the stuff my future is made of. Here is where it ends, and begins, the life I’ve got, the only one.

So I guess I’ll just say fuck it, and welcome, 34.

To be honest, I’m just happy to be here.

Also happy I’m not having lunch with Poppy Harlow. Because really, at the end of the day, we all just have to look on the bright side and enjoy the fucking miracle of motherhood. A paradigm shift, people. That’s what we’re going for.

Let us also not forget I’m way less fat than I used to be. WINNING!

Hemingway used to say he had a bullshit detector.

You know what I have? A bitch-mom detector.

No, I’m serious. Within 30 seconds I can tell if I’m next to one.

All she has to do is start talking.

Boom. MAYDAY MAYDAY!! RUN! NOW!

It happened recently at that harvest festival. Georgia, practicing her social butterfly act [and sadly lacking the bitch-mom detector I have so carefully honed] makes a beeline to the offspring of a woman who…well…let’s just say we probably wouldn’t evolve into BFFs.

So Georgie cruises up to this toddler and I notice she’s in one of those $700. hovering Euro spacecraft things. Whatever. That’s not a deal-breaker. I know some amazingly rad rich people. At least I think I do.

At any rate, ya can’t judge looks and money.

There are way better things to judge. We’ll get to that.

Admittedly, however, my Detector started quietly beeping when I observed that this woman was at a harvest festival at a FARM, in the DIRT, looking more put together than I do on my “fancy” days. Full make-up, perfect body, immaculate jeans with a perfectly ironed top, some token “country” item like unused, $400 leather boots… sipping a glass of chardonnay.

Her baby was equally immaculate.

Whatevs. I have an open mind. Open like a fucking parachute.

So she comes bounding up to me all peppy and shit, looking like something out of a BabyCenter ad, and I’m standing there with my ripped jeans and love handles,  questionable attitude and bad hair. Of course, I’m wearing flip flops, because duh. So my feet are black. I’m wearing no make-up.

A win, as usual.

My toddler is equally filthy. Her hair is insane and in her eyes (as always), speckled with various items found on the ground. She’s covered in dust and not wearing shoes. Having just consumed about 75 cherry tomatoes, she has actually managed to create mud on her cheeks and nose. When the mother says “hi” to me, I observe my offspring trying to feed her kid the rock she’s been carrying with her for the last 20 minutes.

I am sure this interaction is going to be a success.

Right.

As I’m fielding Georgia away from choking the toddler on a rock, the talking portion begins:

Her: “Oh, how old is your baby?”

Me: “just turned 2.”

Her: “Oh, wow. She’s so SMALL. I guess I forget how big my baby is!! She’s only 18 months and already wearing 3T clothing!”

And with my forced grin I realized that we were now entering what I like to call “The Female Version of ‘Who’s got the bigger penis?’”

It’s like a game show for mothers, only usually there’s only one contestant who wants to play.

I try to pull Georgia away, mumbling “yeah,” and something about finding my other kids.

She says “Oh! You have other kids here? Me too. I have an older one, but she and her friend are totally bored with all this art stuff. They go to a school where all they do is art, so they’re like ‘yeah, whatever, we do this every day.’”

And as she’s talking, I realize she’s doing bitch-speak: certain words are coming out of her mouth, but what she’s actually saying is something completely different. She’s saying “My kid goes to art school;” what she MEANS is “I’m rich and I need you to know it.”

I felt like saying “Yeah, wow. My kids think this is the best thing in the world, because they go to a public school with other poor people where they do worksheets and take standardized tests.”

But I didn’t, because that would require further involvement. I smiled and picked Georgia up, trying to book it the hell outta there before my bitch detector became audible. I said “have a good time, see you later.”

Mac saw the interaction and commented “You didn’t look like you were loving that.”

And I spent the rest of the day translating bitch-speak in my head.

Because I’m a weirdo.

But you guys have to feel me on this one…you know, those moments when mothers get all competitive, engaging in these weird, complex pissing matches, but ALL IN CODE. We do it, but we do it in bitch-speak. And this chick walks up to you all nonchalant, acting as if she’s sweet like honey, when really she’s interested in eating your young and using you as the pathetic backdrop to her own excellence.

It’s BITCH-SPEAK, and it’s REAL.

To illustrate, I made a chart. Please enjoy:

Bitch-Speak Translation Chart

And the best part is, we get so good at it, the bitch-speak translation, that we don’t even hear the actual words…our detector goes off and we’re OUTTA THERE.

As fast as we came.

And then, we call our friends, and translate together.

But don’t get me wrong. We’re all bitches too. We just don’t say it in code.

We say it outright, as it is. And then, we laugh like hell.

Cause we know who’s got the bigger penis.

AND WE LOVE IT.

[OMGI'mdyinglaughing. And you have to tell me about your translations. I can't be the only one who does this.]

Time for another installment of “Fun with Google Search Terms,” when we give a little recognition to the whackos who click through to my blog (present company excluded of course).

Here are the best ones in the past couple months. For those of you who haven’t played before, the terms below are the Google searches people enter to eventually find my blog. Since they probably didn’t find what they were looking for on my blog (with some of these, GOD HELP US if they did), I’d like to take a moment to respond to them. You know, like guidance.

Because everybody seeks my guidance.

As you can imagine.

So here we go.

1. “do crackheads fingers turn black” – Yes. Though my friend, I believe that may be the least of their problems. (AGAIN with the crackheads. We always end up with the crackheads.)
2. “are playdates necessary?” – If you are asking questions like that, then my dear, in this case, you have come to the right place. Here’s the quick answer: only if the parents are cool.
3. “jessica simpson’s feet are weird” – Not as weird as the fact that you just Googled that.
4. “how to stop writing on bathroom stalls” – Well, I would start by not taking a pen in there with ya. Also, you could just not do it. You know, try and stuff and see how that goes. Maybe there’s a 12-step group for people who can’t stop defacing public property.
5. “a hoarding to propagate a daily glass of milk is every child’s right” – I have no idea what that means but I know it needs to be on this list.
6. “what the fuck is a water table?” – I don’t know you, but I like you.
7. “do i yell at my kids because I’m angry at them?” – No, you yell at them because you are delighted with them, which is always why people yell at one another. Also, please don’t have any more kids. You’re kind of an idiot.
8. “fuck yo barbaric yawp” – Alright I’m serious. We need to be friends. Who are you? You quoted Walt Whitman and used the word “fuck” in the same sentence. WE ARE SOUL MATES.
9. “can i buy my kids way into gifted and talented education” – Let’s sure hope so, because that would be so helpful to them. I mean they’d really learn a LOT by having you buy their way into GATE. [P.S. Does it scare anybody else that asshats like this are walking around the world like it's nothin', quite possibly producing children who exist near our children?]
10. “i realized i like to be naked” – You’re just realizing that now? What the hell were you doing in your twenties?
11. “fuck you mean fitted sheet” – I want to write something but I’m laughing too damn hard. Win.
12. “Saturday message from Jesus” – Does it change on Saturdays? [Also, can we take a moment to appreciate that somebody looking for Jesus's message came to MY blog?]
13. “Bible quotes against Facebook” – Yo, Einstein, Facebook wasn’t around when the Bible was written. Now go back to scouring the Bible for passages you can manipulate into anti-homosexual propaganda.
14. “why is my dog mothering a sock?” – No idea, but I’d give pretty much anything to see how that’s going down
15. “neon fucking green shorts bitch” – You tell ‘em.
16. “my parents are unenlightened” -Are you sure?

And now we can all feel confident knowing that this blog is still pulling some of the brightest bulbs in the shed, as well as the crack heads, who are always welcome.

P.S. Fuck yo barbaric yawp.

I’m using that.

I used to do this every week. And by “used to” I mean “for 3 months.”

It’s been so long I bet some of you have never even seen WTF? Wednesday, that special time when we contemplate and appreciate the verbal whack flowing from the mouths of babes. Or the brilliance. Mostly whack.

Let’s start with a cute one:

Rocket: “Mama, why do you have to go to school?”
Me: “So I can get a job someday.”
Rocket, looking very concerned and sincere: “But you already have a job. Your job is to homeschool Meeeeeee!”

Can we all just say it together…AWWWWWWW.

____

Ava: “I want to be a NASA engineer, a mom, a cook or a nurse. As a back-up plan, I’ll be the first woman president.”
Me: “That’s a solid back-up plan.”
Ava: “Well, by the time I’m big everything will be so messed up they’ll need somebody smart to fix it. To get elected, I’ll tell everybody what they want to hear, then I’ll do whatever I want once I’m president.”

Remind me not to vote for her if she’s ever running.

____

Ava: “Fourth grade is really a turning point. Kids are so much more mature. You know we say things like ‘not necessarily’ and appreciate lady Gaga and people don’t make farting noises as often.”

I don’t know, people. I just don’t know.

___________

Rocket, trying to coax Georgia to come over to him…”Georgia, come hhhheerrrree….I have something for youuuuuu…it’s right here…look, you can choke on it…!”

Oh come on you know I couldn’t make this shit up.

_________

Rocket, playing with Georgia: “You’re a cute 20 minutes!”

Me: “Rocket, what does that mean?”

Rocket: “She’s cute for 20 minutes. Then she’s annoying.”

Huh. That’s funny, that statement pretty much works for all kids, and most people.

_______

Rocket: “I’m more of a lollipop kind of guy.”

Me: “Rocket, what does that mean?” (Yes, I say that a lot.)

Rocket: “Exactly what I said. I’m more of a lollipop kind of guy.”

Me: “Right. I got that. But you’re more into lollipops than what?”

Rocket: “Everything.”

_________

Ava, as people drove by our house with super loud bass playing: “I bet Georgia has more teeth than those people.”

Me: “That’s not very nice. They could have a whole head of excellent teeth.”

Ava: “No, they spent all their money on that stereo and then couldn’t afford dental care.”

I have NO IDEA where she gets that inappropriate sense of humor.

______

Rocket: “Mama, could you please be less annoying?”

Me: “I don’t think so.”

Rocket: “Why don’t you just try to be less annoying one week at a time. That way you won’t get overwhelmed with the change.”

Gonna be honest, actually considered that suggestion seriously.

Happy WTF Wednesday!

The other day, while scowling at the absurdity of one of those feel-good chocolate hearts and roses Valentine’s ads, I placed my pointer finger against my face in the classic thinking posture and asked myself… “Hmmmm…what would an honest Valentine’s Day card say?”

And then, as this thought rolled around in my [acutely insane] brain, I realized that this is no simple question, but rather depends entirely on how long the couple has been together.

Because as you probably know…that shit CHANGES. (Relationships, that is. Men, not so much.)

So this small, profound monologue got me thinking about the fact that there are (in my opinion) three stages in a relationship/marriage, each of them obviously necessitating a different Valentine, were it to be honest and real and able to speak the truth of the insanity. Err, I mean “budding love story.”

Wow. Deep.

Anyhoo, I give you this. I ask that you please enjoy the clip art.

Stage 1

Years 0-2: The “I haven’t Been With You Long Enough to Realize How Much You Annoy Me” stage, comprised of long walks and hand-holding, starry-eyed dinners, cocktails, discussions, movie-watching, reasonable arguments, cuddling and pet names. Also, smug looks directed at women who are in Stages 2 and 3 with their men, and a distinct feeling of superiority, having obviously been deemed the first woman in history to not wonder if she could turn herself into a lesbian to avoid further intimacy with the male population. Also, women in this stage rest easy in the comfort and surety that they will never, ever want to pummel their little love kitten with a meat cleaver. Because he’s PERFECT. Duh.

A Stage 1 Valentine looks something like one of these:

And now…

Stage 2, Years 2-5: The “Holy Shit I had no Idea You Had These Sorts of Habits” Stage, also known as the “I Must Mold You Into Something More Like What I Had In Mind” Stage, characterized by a lot of discussions with girlfriends regarding the man’s deficiencies, as well as a decent amount of wonderment and awe as the female discovers The Male is not at all perfect (and may actually have some sort of disability, as evidenced by the fact that he can’t find stuff that’s 3 inches from his forehead and leaves hair in the bathroom sink after shaving). This stage also involves the surfacing of all other incomprehensible tendencies, causing the female to realize she’s going have to fix this character if they’re ever going to make it. And therefore, she begins to WORK, which of course results in long, long, long discussions, unreasonable bickering, maybe therapy but for sure tears, cajoling, threatening, flailing and general malaise, and, most likely, the arrival of an infant or two.

Honest Valentines at this stage may look like this:

And then, if the couple in question makes it past Stage 2, they enter Stage 3 (years 6 – ?), commonly known as the “Well Obviously You are not Going to Change and I’m Tired of Fighting so I’ve Accepted you and your Weirdness” Stage. (Yes, these stages have awkwardly long titles. Not particularly catchy, I know. Don’t blame me. I didn’t make it up.) Oh wait.

As you can see, this is something of a deal-breaker stage – since it’s pretty much Stage 3 or Stage Bye-Bye. Stage 3 is characterized by a lot of glaring but less complaining, fewer divorce threats and a surface-level acceptance of small, irritating habits (such as buying odd gadgets that will never ever be used EVER, or eating onions before bed). It also involves some strange compromises (“Honey, if you pick up your bath towel from the floor every day, I’ll start squeezing the toothpaste from the bottom.”) and subtle retaliation (as opposed to the long, long, long discussions in stage 2 (or therapy)). On the plus side, this Stage results in a weird peace and vague sense of serenity and, occasionally, some intense relief  regarding the fact that you didn’t throw in the towel when things got rough (and therefore, thank god, you don’t have to deal with these hoodlum children alone). Women in this stage feel a little like badass survivors of some great calamity, like a tsunami, or fire. “We almost didn’t make it, kids. We really had to work HARD to make this marriage work. Ah, but look at us now…”

And we feel a little victorious. And yeah, alright, I’ll say it: A little in love.

Enough of the sappy crap.

Real valentines in this stage may look something like this:

And with that, let me just say: Happy freaking Valentine’s Day, ladies.

xoxoxoxo

So every day as I look at my “stats” (why yes, I did feel important saying “stats”) I’m convinced the biggest whackjobs on the planet end up on my blog (present company excluded, of course). I mean the stuff they search for…and then they follow through to my blog…and then I get to see what search phrase brought them there.

Wait. Does that say something about the kind of crap I’m writing?

Nah, that can’t be it. Pure coincidence I’m sure.

Anyhoo, just like the last time I did this, I thought I’d help these people out a bit, by providing some input on their respective concerns.

So here we go. Best Google search terms in the last few months…

1. “fart experiment for kids” – Wow. A fart experiment for kids. Well, if you’re thinking of something involving fire and child gas, let me be the first to tell you, in no uncertain terms, THAT IS A BAD IDEA MY FRIEND. If you’d like a “fart experiment,” please try it on yourself first. No really, do. Right now.
2. “how to dress if you are a crunchy parent” – Well, I hate to break it to you, but if you’re Googling this, you are decidedly not a crunchy parent. But I’ll help you out anyway, just because I’m nice: wear organic bamboo pants and large leather shoes, fleece, and no make-up. If possible, incorporate hemp and a hand-knit beanie. Also a shirt involving Vegan lifestyles, cooperative gardening or homeless puppies. Be a little dirty, don’t shave your legs, let your hair get a tiny bit funky. Patchwork, bahtik, and odd colors are also a bonus. Smell like lentils and garlic. But mostly, go sit in a dark, quiet room and ask yourself why you’re trying so hard to fit in with a group of people who have based their entire lives on “not fitting in.” Hmmmmm.
3. “How to get poo off a onesie” – Wash it, homeslice. Wash it.
4. “How to come up with a title for my life” – I’m guessing “Tales of a Dumbass” since you think the internet is going to lend some insight on your personal life. Really dude, that’s just weird.
5. “Does insomnia feel like being high” – Yes.
6. “Shit, I hate my bed sheets” – Yeah, bad bed sheets can really fuck things up. May I suggest letting go and moving on and then, when you’ve recovered from the initial shock of this experience by commiserating with online strangers about their bed sheet quandaries, buying some new ones.
7. “Can my husband have me arrested?” – Well, just throwing out ideas here, but I THINK if you do something illegal, he can indeed have you arrested. Perhaps you should try it and find out. If you do, please come back to this here blog and tell me how it went.
8. “Great T.V. for unschooling” – May I suggest a broken one?
9. “Things that confuse me” – Not positive, but I BET you’re confused by quite a few things, such as this: the internet can’t tell you what confuses you because it isn’t you. You are you and the internet is not you. And if you search the internet for things that confuse “me” you are going to get a bunch of people explaining what confuses THEM, because they are not as confused as you.  Hopefully that helped.

Oh well, at least it’s better than the last one, wherein pretty much every search phrase involved crack or meth.

Clearly, I’m getting classier by the minute, as evidenced by our moving on to fart experiments.

Yessss.

So occasionally I come across some little quiz or whatever “helping” people determine if they’re ready to become a parent. This is, of course, totally ridiculous, because there is no possible way anybody could ever be “ready” for the train wreck that is New Parenthood.

You can’t prepare for that. (Neither the joys nor the horrors.)

Go ahead, read BabyCenter and Parenting Magazine, buy all the books, let them lull you into a space of confidence and security…but get ready to fall EVEN HARDER once that kid comes and you realize they sold you LIES.

I repeat: there is no preparing for this.

There are, of course, our super over-achieving types who make spreadsheets to record poops and pees and have money coming out their ears and therefore buy all the gear and DO EVERYTHING PERFECTLY – but, in my experience, those are usually the people who suffer the most, especially when their kid turns out to be the most non-spreadsheet-adaptable human on the planet. Invariably, they end up with the kid that defies all logic, routine or reason.  They have the freaking nutjob baby who sleeps like one hour a week and wails the rest of the time. (While watching Baby Einstein and doing flashcards, of course.) By the way, Baby Einstein is like the only thing my baby will watch for more than 12 seconds…SCORE!

But if a checklist actually existed that may actually help people determine whether they are ready for day-to-day, on-the-ground parenthood, it would (in my [dark, twisted] opinion) look something like this:

Are you ready to be a parent? Let’s find out! Mark all the items on the below list that are true for you. If you choose 20 or more, you’re ready for parenthood!

1. I only like to sleep when other people tell me I can sleep.
2. I enjoy using the restroom in the company of others.
3. I like poop.
4. I like poop on my hands.
5. If I were to, say, find silly putty stuck between my bed sheets, I’d think it was cute.
6. My greatest pleasure in life is driving humans around in a hurry.
7. I believe money should be spent on character-building activities of questionable value and Starbucks.
8. Quarterly sex will suffice.
9. I enjoy receiving unsolicited advice from toothless women who smell like gin.
10. I also like it when they touch my belly.
11. I seek opportunities to engage in outrageously high-stakes activities for which I am totally underprepared.
12. If I could, I would wash approximately 12,000 garments a day.
13. I like guilt.
14. I like constant talking and a low hum of irritating, indecipherable noise.
15. I prefer my tits closer to my knees.
16. When walking around my house barefoot, I throw food and small toys on the ground because I like the feel of them between my toes.
17. I prefer to work during vacations.
18. In restaurants, I like to walk around every four minutes and eat my food standing up while chasing a squirrel on crack.
19. My goal in life is to act every day exactly like my mother even though I think I’m not.
20. I’m okay with never seeing the floor of my car again.
21. I’m ready to want to stab myself in the eye with a toothpick on a sometimes hourly basis then somehow, at the end of the day, cry because I realize my life won’t always be like this.
22. In short, I’M READY FOR MADNESS.

Now why don’t they write THAT on BabyCenter?

I went to the gym today. I know. How clichéd – going to the gym on freaking January 2. There were like 17 billion people there, all of them looking super interested and impressed with themselves. I know I was.

Duh.

New Year’s Resolutions.

I also went to the grocery store, where there was an inordinate number of people in the vegetable aisle.

Coincidence?

I think not.

And I totally get it. I fall into the New Year’s Resolution trap. It feels all fresh and new and possible, you know, to start a new way of living, abandon old habits or take on new ones or get skinny or rich or married or whatever.

So as I mentioned yesterday, I’ve decided to jot down a few of my resolutions for 2012. Though I’ve called it Slacker Resolutions 2012, it could also be entitled “The Aim Low List”, or “I’m never going to do any of this shit anyway so let’s set low expectations to avoid excessive disappointment.”

To get my mind rolling, I Googled “most common New Year’s resolutions” and pulled the top 10. Then I modified them a bit, you know, to fit.

Resolution 1: Spend more time with family and friends.

Slacker modification: Stop telling my husband I want a divorce every time we fight.

Resolution 2: Eat healthier food.

Slacker modification: Stop eating chocolate in the middle of the night.

Resolution 3: Exercise.

Slacker modification: Park in the far-away spot immediately, as opposed to circling the lot 9 times hoping a closer one opens up.

Resolution 4: Enjoy life more/be less stressed

Slacker modification: Stop saying “fuck” so often in front of the children.

Resolution 5: Quit drinking.

Slacker modification: Buahahahahaha already did that one.

Resolution 6: Get out of debt.

Slacker modification:  Demand that my husband handle that whole debt situation immediately. If not sooner.

Resolution 7: Learn something new.

Slacker modification: Complete one craft.

Resolution 8: Travel to new places.

Slacker modification: Order something new at the taco truck.

Resolution 9: Help others/volunteer.

Slacker modification: Huh?

Resolution 10: Get organized.

Slacker modification: Stop basing laundry decisions on how many pairs of clean underwear are in my drawer.

I don’t know, but I think this is a pretty solid list.

Slightly unrealistic (particularly the not saying fuck one), but still, pretty solid.

And you? What are your slacker resolutions?

No really, do tell.

This could get good.

You know what I should be doing? School work.

But, I’m not.

You know why?

Because I need to write the most important post I’ll probably ever write in my whole life.

Check it out.

In 3 years, when Georgia is just four, probably going to preschool and really not needing me quite so much, and I consequently have a relapse of the terminal disease known among medical journals as “I Really Really Really Think I Need a New Baby,” please remind me of the following few moments. No really, please.

Before we get into this, let me just say that when the time comes, you must be strong in the face of this insidious disease. I will tell you I really really need a newborn, and we can totally afford it and if I don’t have it my life will seem incomplete and I’ll regret it forever.

I will suddenly, defying all reason, only remember the most glorious moments spent with my children as infants. I will tell you I loved the toddler stage. If I hold your baby, I may get a little teary-eyed in joyful nostalgia. I will stare at pregnant women with a splash of longing in my eyes, forgetting completely that I FUCKING HATE BEING PREGNANT. Babies will appear radiant to me in their loveliness, like handfuls of sunlight woven together with silken threads of moonlight. I just threw up a little in my mouth.

So despite all this, you must look me in the eye and tell me these things. Please. I’m relying on you. You are my only hope of not having another damn kid.

Remind me of…

1. Trying to take a shower. Remind me of the fact that I have to hold the sliding shower door shut with one hand the entire time I’m showering lest the toddler enter with me, drenching herself. Remind me of the screams and wails of despair echoing in the bathroom as she bemoans her rejected state, and I try to shower with one hand.
2. Changing the diaper of a 15-month old. Remind me of the squirming. Of the hand that shoots down like lightening to grab the poop. Just outta nowhere…BOOM!!! Shit everywhere. Remind me of that.
3. The batshit crazy hour each night. Remind me of that hour each day when the toddler is too tired to do ANYTHING – even just stand there motionless – but not tired enough to sleep. Remind me of holding her on my hip while I try to do everything else for the other two kids. Cook. Eat. Laundry. Etc. Remind me of the inability to set her down for even three freaking seconds because…because why? Because who the fuck knows why. Because toddlers are lunatics. Remind me of that.
4. The toddler path of destruction. Remind me of the way she spends pretty much every waking moment destroying things – over-turning, pulling down, shoving off, shoving in, dumping, hitting. Nonstop destruction. Nonstop work for me. Not for neatness, but for life. To keep her from injuring herself. Remind me of that.
5. And finally, the perfectly timed, toddlers-must-be-in-tune-with-the-inner-workings-of-the-universe wake up moment. You know what I’m talking about, right? That moment when you are drifting off to sleep, finally. That giant cloud of relief spread out beneath you, begging you to fall, completely, into vast lovely sleep. And you’re drifting, settling down into sweet relaxation, ah bliss. And just as you’re about to fall into that bliss…you hear it. The grumble. The whine. The wahhhhhhhh. And you realize she ain’t going back to sleep and once again, you aren’t getting a decent night’s sleep and you will spend tomorrow in hazy exhaustion.  Again. You roll out of bed. Stumbling. Cursing the whole deal.

Swearing you’re never going to have another fucking baby.

Friends, remind me of that.

You see?

The most important post I’ll ever write.

Do you people think I’m kidding? Because I’m not.

Don’t fail me here guys.

Maybe we should start a support group for this. We could get together for meetings every week and invite people with toddlers. Then just watch. And REMEMBER.

Anybody interested?