Two weeks ago, my husband removed the television from the living room wall. He then placed it in our closet. It has remained there since. So yes, since that time, we have not had a functioning T.V. in our home.

Now, I would like to tell you that we did this for some deep philosophical purpose – you know, in support of some profound spiritual, insightful, Waldorf-inspired conviction…but that would be a lie.

And you KNOW I never lie.

Yes, I totally do.

But not about this, because I’d totally get caught. If I uttered the words “I removed the television from my house because I want my kids to knit and weave and make felt gnomes all day,” you all would know I was full of shit, because I’ve openly admitted my need for the electronic babysitter.

Plus, you know I am way too lazy for that wool felting thing.

So I’ll tell ya the truth. The truth is we removed the television because our son had the focus of, well, hmmm. How can I explain this?

Picture a river otter on methamphetamine. Now ask it to do algebra.

Yes, yes that’s it.

I may be exaggerating. Maybe. Very thin maybe.

And as I watched our little river otter dart around the world in maniacal inattention, I kept getting the feeling that the television was messing with him. Mac had the same feeling. It was a gut feeling.

We kept throwing around the T.V.-ejection idea, but we always came back to our own laziness. I mean, what about those movies we like to watch once every 6 months, or that vegetating time (which I keep saying I’m going to do but never actually accomplish)? What about 30 Rock? What ABOUT THE OFFICE people THE OFFICE? Don’t fuck with Dwight.

And Rocket LOVED that box. Loved it. Watched it every chance he got. Occasionally threw fits when we made him turn it off.

But as it often happens in my house, one day Mac got serious and just did it. He got his tools out. He took the sucker off the wall. He did it without word or warning.

To tell you the truth, I panicked a little. I mean, what the hell am I going to do with these kids when I need to cook? When I need a break? How I am going to plug them in for a few minutes?

Oh WOW, that sounded awful.

But I figured we’d give it a shot for the summer, to see how it goes.

And let me tell you how it’s gone: I may never have a television in my house again.

I am floored by the changes in my family. I cannot explain the depth of my amazement at what I’ve witnessed.

My son is a new person. He is calmer, more centered, more patient. He is a different child.

As I write this, he and Ava are playing Barbies in the other room. They have been doing so for the last hour. With pretty much no fighting.

I couldn’t make this up.

A couple days ago Rocket woke up at 5am. The whole house was asleep. I hadn’t fallen asleep until 2am, so it was OUT OF THE QUESTION that I would get up with him. My heart sank when I remembered I couldn’t tell him to watch T.V. quietly until I woke up. I told him “Rocket, check it out. I need to sleep. Everybody’s asleep. You need to tiptoe into the living room and play quietly until I wake up.” He said “Okay.” I thought “there is no way in hell this is ever going to work.”

I figured I’d get 10 minutes before he started launching himself off the couch onto something large and squeaky, waking up Georgia and therefore me.

Two hours later, at 7am, I awoke to Rocket holding Georgia by the hand, walking into my room saying “You want to see mama? You want ‘gook’ (nursing)?”

I was aghast. I asked him what he had been doing. He said “playing with my army men.” I almost fell over.

Holy mother of god that never would have happened people EVER EVER EVER.

Here are the other things that have blown my mind:

My kids fight less. They get so bored they actually play with each other.

They get so bored they actually play with their toys.

Ava reads the younger kids stories.

We spend time rolling around on the floor doing absolutely nothing because there’s nothing better to do. Last night we spent an hour on my bed (the 3 kids and I) taking turns making Georgia laugh by putting a book on our head and making it fall.

I thought they would harass and harangue me CONSTANTLY to be entertained. And they did, for the first day or two. And then they got over it. I haven’t heard a single complaint about the T.V. being gone, and I only hear “I’m bored” like once a day. The truth is, I am shocked. I had no idea it would be like this. I really thought the kids would flip out.

The energy in this house is 100% changed. I don’t know why. It just has. It’s like everybody has just been taken down a notch, and everybody’s calmer and more easy-going.

WE HANG OUT WITH EACH OTHER.

Yes, the house is a new level of messy. Toys are freaking everywhere.

Yes, there’s a lot more talking and singing and noise and playing, all the time. And it gets annoying.

And yes, this may be the best thing we’ve ever done.

An old friend of mine was an physician, trained in traditional Western medicine. Through a series of interesting circumstances, he ended up studying acupuncture in China. He now practices acupuncture and Western medicine, but leans toward acupuncture. When I asked him how he was converted to the practice of acupuncture (as he stuck needles in my ear), especially after all that training in the West, he responded, “I don’t believe in this shit, it just works.”

Yep. Pretty much.

I don’t believe in not having a T.V. But for us, it just works.

Don’t get me wrong. We aren’t some Zen rainbows and flowers and patchouli family all the sudden, but we’re damn better than we were before. And I like what I see…

doing nothing, soon to be wrestling. they do this a lot.

DUDE, WAH? This really happened

Playing BARBIES. This has never occurred before.

Well, now. That’s not a sentence you hear every day. Even Jessica herself might be a little surprised to read that one.

Or, perhaps even more alarming, she might not.

Anyhoo, the other day on the trusty cardio machine I was reading my trusty trash magazines and I saw a picture of Jessica during her baby shower. [Um, how much did she rake in for letting People Magazine cover that one?] And as I saw her I thought to myself “WOW. She’s gained some WEIGHT.”

And then I read that she served deep-fried Twinkies at her shower, which triggered in my trusty little brain a vague recalling of some chatter a few months back about how she said on Jay Leno that she was craving some ghastly brownie creation involving cookie dough and Oreos.

And all the sudden, I kinda started to like her.

I mean she’s not up there with like, say, Jane Austen or my grandma, but she’s further up than most famous pop singers.

Sure, I have never actually listened to a song she’s sung. (She does make music, right?)

And I don’t think I’ve ever actually watched a movie she’s made (there was that one with the car and water and super short shorts…that I never fully watched…Duke something?).

And she doesn’t strike me as the sharpest tool in the shed.

And I have a feeling we may have slightly different approaches to life (considering she sold her baby shower to People Magazine).

And I wouldn’t really suggest my daughters aspire to be like her, per se.

HOWEVER, despite all this, she’s my new hero – say, for the week – because she’s somebody in Hollywood who finally acted like a fucking human during pregnancy by eating too much and getting fat. Like the rest of us.

FINALLY.

Finally somebody who doesn’t look like they’ve placed a small basketball in their Gucci dress and called it a baby, with perfectly toned arms/legs/ass/head (can a head be toned?)…happily announcing “I’m due any day!”

While we all watch, gagging from our living rooms at the sight of such horridness (I mean SHIT, ANGELINA, EAT)…sitting there 8 months pregnant and wondering how the hell we’re gonna get off the couch, since we just ate like everything and pretty much can’t move even when we haven’t just eaten. Everything.

Finally. A chick in Hollywood who gets fat like a normal person.

Oh yeah. Yeah yeah yeah I know. Health. Yes. Of course. Not every woman gets fat.

True.

But most of us do.

Fact.

Or at least, we feel fat. And we gain more than we wanted. And we don’t do Pilates and yoga and ride bikes and swim and eat quinoa and roasted eggplant til the day we deliver.

Most of us eat shit and get fat and hope to God that the whole breastfeeding-burns-calories theory holds water.

And so, I commend you, Jessica Simpson, for representing the poor choices women make during that special time. And for discussing it on national television. And in People Magazine. Even if you did get millions for it.

Of course, now I hear you’ve already sold your post-baby weight-loss journey to some weight-loss company, which means we have suddenly somehow already lost touch with one another, which is kind of sad.

We had some good times, you and I.

It was good while it lasted.

But no matter how thin you get, no matter how many 5Ks you run 4 months after your baby’s born, no matter how soon you divorce your latest flavor, and no matter how BAD your next entertainment endeavor is… I’ll always remember you as The Actual Hollywood Human Female who ate horrible things during pregnancy, got fat, and admitted it.

Like the rest of us.

So cheers to my new hero.

Gooooooo Jessica!

Did I really just write a blog post about Jessica Simpson being my hero? Somebody help me.

Dear dudes who check out women’s asses and think nobody notices,

You know who you are. Don’t deny it. I saw one of you just the other day, and despite my glares and mouth agape at your conspicuousness and lack of class, you just kept on staring, which compels me to write you this letter, just to clear up what I was thinking, and what, perhaps, we’re all thinking. About you. You somewhat dirty man in your 50s.

Here’s what you did.

I was standing in a long line at a coffee shop. You were over at the end of the counter waiting for your drink. A young woman in jeans was standing at the register, ordering. Admittedly her curves didn’t suck. You also noticed this and decided to get a better look. So you backed up, took a few steps to the left to get an unobstructed view, and stared. Just STARED. Your eyes did not move from her ass. I stared at you. I kept staring at you. You didn’t notice. I tilted my head to one side like “for reals?” and wished I could bitch-slap you with my mind, for being an asshole.

I felt a pang for this woman, because she was just standing there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, a college student, ordering some coffee, and she became the object of whatever sick shit was rolling through your kinda-old-man brain. And you didn’t even have the decency to hide it.

You looked away for a minute. Then did it again. You were fixated. To me, you looked pathetic and creepy and almost violent with the forcefulness of your attention.

She walked over closer to you. You kept staring. I kept glaring.

The truth is I wanted to tell you you’re a fucking sleazebag slime ball, to so obviously lust after a woman at least 30 years younger than you, with no respect for her or anybody else. With no regard for who she may be as a human, or that perhaps she deserves a little privacy, or respect. That she’s somebody’s daughter and maybe mother.

And maybe you think we don’t notice. Maybe you think we can’t see what you’re doing as you undress her with your eyes and contemplate the beauty that will never be yours.

I was once the woman you dirt bags stared at, as most of us were, when I was young and thin and, um,  perky. But I ain’t anymore and I gotta tell you, it doesn’t really bother me that much. And now, I feel this weird motherly-like protective instinct for women who aren’t asking for it and yet become sex objects under the power of a masochistic gaze.

I have a feeling you don’t get it very often. I have a feeling you have a very small wee-wee.

I have a feeling you aren’t much of a man at all. You probably pay for it. You probably pay women to meet the expectations of your self-centered fantasies. It was clear you thought nothing of her beyond what she could offer you sexually. Everybody in the place was watching you gawk. My intuition was raging that you were not a man to be trusted.

So let me just say we all know, dude. We know what you’re doing and we know you’re a fucking loser. And, yes, we know your wee-wee is subpar at best.

That is all.

Signed,

Everybody else in the world.

So a few different things have come up lately that have made me think about the whole concept of judging others.

Or, perhaps, not judging others.

People tend to say that a lot: “Don’t judge.”

Or “I don’t judge.” This statement is, in my opinion, one of the hugest piles of steaming bullshit around.

And, most of the individuals I’ve run into who claim “not to judge” are the most raging judgmental people on the planet – they just keep it all inside – obsessed with the bullshit political correctness movement, wherein we all judge each other silently, but violently, and stand from our pedestal of righteousness and superiority since we “know how to talk properly and respectfully and non-judgmentally.”

Which is of course, in itself, a judgment.

Because as far as I can tell there is no way to avoid judging others. It’s like an auto-pilot reaction to life. I have been conditioned by my social, economic, cultural backgrounds to perceive the world in a certain way. I’ve developed ideas along the way regarding right or wrong, educated or not, classy or not – the list continues. I’ve been told things from a very young age by parents and teachers and the media, things that wedge themselves into the crevices of my mind whether I want them there or not.

I can’t just THINK that shit away. I can’t just erase them with positive self-talk and Oprah.

In my experience, the best thing to do with the judgments I have is to admit that they’re there, face them directly, and remain as willing as I possibly can to let them go should information come my way that negates them.

I try to keep my mind open.

And usually, that’s how it works for me. I think I know something. I think I know the way it should be done and oh yeah I get all self-righteous in that knowledge, until life hands me something in startling opposition to that belief – and I realize, in a flash…I was wrong.

Boom. Judgment gone.

I think that’s why so many people who haven’t had children are so judgmental of people’s parenting approaches. They haven’t had kids yet so they still think it’s easy and straightforward and universal.

And then they have kids and they’re like “Holy fuck I didn’t realize it was like THIS.”

Or they remain judgmental pricks and we hate them.

But after thinking about this for awhile, I think when people are saying “don’t judge” they actually mean “don’t condemn.”

And that I think is some sound advice. If I reject people because they’re doing something I don’t agree with, if I shun them or silence or ignore them, well then I’ve entered the land of closed-mindedness and I am sure to stay swimming forever in the pool of my own judgments and hate.

I have all kinds of people in my life who do things on a regular basis that make me wonder if they have some sort of mental disorder. But I freaking love them anyway. My love blows past my ego’s need to judge them. I watch my judgment come up. Maybe I say something, maybe I don’t. But I try to just go back to loving them. Because usually there’s more to a person than this one thing that really irritates me. And I know that. And I try to hold on to that.

Unless that thing is really fucking BIG. In that case, we pretty much can’t be friends. I’m not Mother Theresa, you know. (as shocking as that may strike you.)

Maybe I shouldn’t write my judgments on my blog. Maybe I should hold them all inside in case they are disproven at a later date.

Maybe. But I don’t think so. It’s way too much fun to let that shit go sometimes.

And if it turns out I’m wrong, holy shit won’t that sting even more! And then I get to get on my blog and tell all you guys “Oh, yeah. About that. I don’t think I believe that anymore.”

And that’d be okay.

And here’s the other thing. Some behavior should be judged. We have to use our brains to look critically at what this world is selling us, right? We gotta question, always question.

If somebody is beating their child they should be judged. Right? What if we just said “oh, well, let’s have an open mind and support them in their beliefs?”

Or Martin Luther King, Jr. Was he not judging? Was he not taking a look at this society and analyzing it like a jeweler looks at a diamond, assessing what was right and wrong, but with the eyes of the open-minded and loving and curious?

He judged, but he didn’t condemn. And his love made him profoundly effective.

No, I am not comparing myself to MLK, Jr. Um, that would be ridiculous. He changed our country. I say “fuck” a lot and whine about inappropriate kid clothing and guinea pigs.

He came to my mind because he embodies what I believe to be the epitome of a free-thinking, resistant, powerful individual. He was an excellent “judge.” He looked, he knew it was wrong, he worked with great power and determination to change it. And he did it out of love for all humanity. Though he could have, he didn’t condemn whites. Instead he loved people with such depth that he could see the universal suffering caused from hate and racism, and from that place of acceptance and love he resonated with people’s souls.

Yeah, I don’t do that. I also don’t love everybody.

But I do try, in my own small, unimportant, slightly pathetic way, to say things honestly as I see them, to stand up for a few things I believe to be true and right and real. I feel a little fear (but I do it anyway) every time I write a post that exposes myself deeply or opinions that may be controversial.

But I’ve never had the gift of small talk or indirectness or beating around the proverbial bush. Consequently, I am really good at removing my foot from my mouth.

I am also so used to being wrong it isn’t funny. (Although as you all know, I still get worked up sometimes when others attempt to tell me I’m wrong. My ego stomps its foot screaming obscenities in the corner of the room, and I write pissed off retaliatory blog posts.) That’s because I’m also, quite often: childish, self-centered, egotistical and shallow. I get hurt feelings and want to retaliate and prove myself. Why? I don’t freaking know.

Because.

Because I’m a human. With judgments and disasters and successes and failures and tantrums.

I will try to love you. But I will let you down. I will contradict myself. I will walk out too soon or stay too long or speak the wrong words.

But at least I’m speaking them. And that, somehow, feels right.

Okay, I tried. I did. I grasped my tongue. I held it tight.

No really. I did. I can do that. I’ve done it twice.

In my life.

When I was ten.

But I can’t any longer. My fingers are getting tired.

Can we just talk for a minute about some of the clothing made for young girls? Can we? Please? Thanks.

Let me just start this off with some obligatory save-my-ass caveats: 1.) We all have different taste in clothes; 2.) My taste, in general, sucks; 3.) I do not have anything against bows; 4.) I don’t judge you for how you dress your kid.

That last one was a lie.

If you dress your kid in any of the following garments, I will judge you. I will tell myself to stop judging you, but I won’t be able to help it. I will wonder what is wrong with you. (But I will keep it inside, then write about it on my blog.)

Just keepin’ it real.

Your daughter belongs in Hollywood? Really? She “belongs” in a narcissistic, drug-laden, cut-throat cauldron of materialism, sex and exploitation? AND, have you even asked her that question? Have you asked her, “Honey, would you like to be in Hollywood when you grow up?” What if she wants to be a neurosurgeon? What if? What if she wants to join the army and shoot people? Before you go dictating where your daughter “belongs” in the world, you might want to wait until she has at least a say in it. Just a thought.

Better said: “I’m cute. Mommy’s a self-appreciating ball of idiot using her child as a walking ego-boost. Daddy’s fucking his secretary because his wife’s a moron.”

Yes. Exactly. One of the profound universal truths of life: The Bigger the Bow, the Better the Mommy. It’s all about bows. You can be a crack-smoking prostitute AND AN EXCELLENT MOTHER if you put a big enough bow on your kid’s head. Or your own head. Come to think of it, there’s a lot of ambiguity there. Are they referring to the mother’s bow or the daughter’s bow? And if a mother is wearing a giant bow, won’t people wonder if she has some sort of disorder making her think she’s seven years old? And, if this is true, I really wish I would have known it sooner. Really would have saved me a lot of guilt, effort and worry. I mean if all I have to do to “be a better mommy” is use “a bigger bow…” shiiiit.

(have you ever heard anything so stupid? Freaking bows.) P.S. It’s not the bows I have a problem with, it’s the idea that motherhood can be defined by the SIZE OF ONE’S BOW.

How in the hell do you look at your sweet, innocent baby girl and say to yourself…”What I see in you, little one, with your chubby legs and innocent eyes…what I see is a “DIVA.” I see a future pop music star. I see somebody up on stage gallivanting in sparse clothing, rocking coliseums and making men drool. Maybe back in the day the word “diva” just meant “a successful female opera singer,” but today that word is all wrapped up in sex. Interwoven with sex. Inextricably connected to sex and the objectification of it, in the form of the female voice and body. How are you going to slap that label on your little girl? HOW?

Aren’t we all? Isn’t that pretty much why we’re all born? Just to “wear diamonds?” Is there anything more important in life? No. No there isn’t. And how do you get those diamonds? By becoming a DIVA, obviously. (Or marrying somebody for their money because though you “belong in Hollywood” you never quite made it and therefore must acquire The Meaning of Life (diamonds!) by selling your life (and your soul) to some man who can provide). Aim high, I always say.

I think this one is my favorite. “Step Aside, Barbie.” BARBIE. The most controversial “girl” toy in the world. A FUCKING PLASTIC DOLL. A plastic doll with perfect features, an endless wardrobe, large houses, fancy cars, hot men, a permanent grin and high heels… AND NO BRAIN. No brain! Just boobs (and a supernaturally tiny waist). Yes, isn’t that our greatest dream for our little girls? That they become PLASTIC? That they become BRAINLESS? That they become mere shells of individuals, perfect in every physical way, perfect in their sexiness, and perfect in their mindlessness?

My dream for you, honey, is that you will take the place of BARBIE when you grow up.

Step aside, Barbie.

My daughter’s a-comin’.

And she doesn’t get to chose what she wants for herself. She doesn’t get to wear clothes she can play in. She doesn’t get to THINK about what she wants to be.

Because I’ve already decided all that for her. She is a diva. She belongs in Hollywood. She was born to wear diamonds. She will be the next Barbie.

And when you’re 7 I’ll start dressing you in mini-skirts and heels. When you’re 9 we’ll start on make-up. At 12, oh boy! At 12 we can do fake nails, bikinis and halter tops! Won’t that be fun! And when you’re 17, my dear, I’ll get you your first boob job so you really can someday take Barbie’s place.

Now come here, honey, put on this bow, so everybody can see how much I love you.

It’s bullshit, I tell ya, the crap they make for little girls. And they are forced to wear it.

Before they can even object.

I am an asshole. Just an average, everyday prick. I piss people off because I am self-absorbed and unaware and pretty much think about myself always, no matter what.

But I am not without compassion. There are, occasionally, some altruistic tugs on my heart strings. For this reason, I have decided to help any budding assholes (huh, that sounded weird) who may be trying to find their way to full dickhead status but just can’t quite make it. You know, struggling. So every now and then, I’m going to write a chapter in my book, entitled, The Asshole Diaries, in which I highlight one aspect of my douche bag repertoire.

And then I’m going to sell it on Amazon for an obscenely cheap price (which will catch your eye) but exorbitant shipping cost (which will make you utter “dick” under your breath). You know, cause that’s how I roll.

So today, let’s talk about parking.

Assholes park in a very particular ways, and they go something like this:

1. Across two spots, especially if you have one of those lifted 4-door trucks with “Piss on Chevy” sticker on the back. Or Ford. Or whatever it is. Yep. Just go ahead and pull right in sideways. Right across those lines.
2. If you can’t park sideways across two spots, at LEAST position yourself diagonally so you take up just enough of a second spot to make it physically impossible for even the tiniest car to park next to you. Make sure you do this when the parking lot is full, so everybody gets to drive by and see you taking up two spots, but just barely.
3. Another winner is to find the dirtiest mini-van or SUV you can, full of car seats and booster seats and kid crap, and park as close to them as you possibly can. I’m talking an INCH or TWO away from it. Just make sure it’s on your passenger side (obviously), so you don’t have any trouble getting out, but the mother has to wrangle her toddler and baby and spastic children into their seats from the other fucking side of the car then crawl her fat ass through the side door across the center console and into her seat. Because she can’t open her door far enough to wedge the said fat ass in.

Because the ASSHOLE parked too close.

YOU CAN be that asshole.

Aim high.

I’m here to help.

Until Chapter 2…

I have accepted my lameness in most areas. I have fully embraced my sub-par performance in pretty much every facet of my life, particularly parenthood.

But today, somebody referred to one of my blog posts as unoriginal.

And that pissed me off.

Because it was true.

It was unoriginal. She was referring to the last post I wrote (about Ava getting flipped off). I could begin with a link to the post I wrote about sarcasm so perhaps this commenter could see that I was just ranting for the sake of ranting in a silly, over-the-top way and there was not much seriousness in it at all. But the truth is that when I got to the end of the post I said to myself “and…now what, Janelle? Where you going with this. Say something interesting.”  But I was too fucking tired. And I just wasn’t feeling “deep.”

I’m sure that has never happened to the commenter in question. I’m sure she is universally profound.

Not me, though. Sometimes I just rant. Sometimes I write shitty blog posts. Sometimes I FAIL. Thank goodness there is always somebody though, standing at the ready with their flaming sword of truth to show me the error of my ways. Ah, the flaming sword of truth. I stole that expression from a friend of mine.

So setting aside the fact that she misunderstood an entire blog post on account of the fact that there is no sarcasm font (or something) and somehow thought the purpose of the post was something other than a base, superficial rant, I would like to write a few things about my ACTUAL response to this whole flipping-off thing.

But wait a second. Can we talk about context and purpose for a moment? Let’s get something straight. Some posts are deep and profound and REAL. Other posts are silly and shallow and NOT REAL.

But I digress.

This commenter also discussed “veiled violence” and admonished us for going on and on about how we’re going to “cut a bitch” (which is so funny it’s making me LOL as I write this. I effing love you people.)

The Flaming Sword of Truth. Yay.

Beyond the cute use of alliteration, I’m not totally sure what her point there was with the “veiled violence” thing – perhaps that we should be teaching our kids something beyond “cutting people.”

Oh COME THE FUCK ON lady we were JOKING.

You wanna know what I really told my daughter? You want that? You want fucking original? Fine. You got it.

I told her people are assholes. I told her some things happen that leave us feeling desperate and abused and vulnerable. And that hurt turns to rage. It manifests as anger as our ego tries to protect itself. Then comes the urge to retaliate, the apparent need to act out and “get somebody back,” thinking for sure if we “really get ‘em” we’ll feel better and some of the hurt will go and we won’t be angry anymore. But it never works. We talked about the futility of that retaliation, how when we retaliate with more violence, we just become sick inside ourselves, and end up feeling worse than before, deep down, no matter what we may tell ourselves. We suffer like our abuser by holding onto rage – and we infuse with power that which we struggle against.

I suggested she look for the Buddha nature in that woman – for the spirit of God within her, making her our teacher.

I told her about Ghandi – about how he was shot in the heart point-blank on his way to a speech, and as he fell, he looked in the eyes of his murderer and whispered to him a blessing of love and forgiveness.

No, I did not suggest to Ava we hunt this woman down and kick her teeth in. I did that on my blog, where it’s safe to be over-the-top, shallow and sarcastic.

Well, usually.

The other day I did something insane.

Okay. More insane than usual.

I baked bread, cleaned my house and prepared a balanced meal.

No I didn’t. But that woulda been cool.

I did something weirder. Against all reason and logic. Don’t ever do this no matter what kind of behavior.

I woke a sleeping baby for no particular reason.

I was gone all day. And I mean ALL DAY. I was gone the night before. I got home at 10pm, the whole house was asleep. I walked into her room. I saw her lying there in her crib. I felt weak in the knees loving her.

I walked out.

I went into Ava’s room, touched her head. Love. Went into my room, saw Rocket on our floor, where he’s been planted every night for the past year or so. Whatevs.

Then I brushed my teeth and got into my own bed. And then I felt it. This yearning. This need. For my baby. I just needed to smell her and touch her. I just needed HER.

I thought “you can’t just PICK HER UP, jackass, she could be awake for hours and then you’ll be awake for hours and regret the whole thing and be exhausted and hate your life tomorrow.” My next thought was “Whatever. If that happens I’ll deal with it then. For now, I want my baby.”

And like a freaking maniac I got UP from my bed went into her room reached into the crib and lifted her onto my chest. Her face fell against me. There.

We sat in the rocking chair and nursed. That lazy, half-interested, sleepy nurse. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I smothered my nose against her face.

And she did wake up. And it did suck a little. But my god it was worth it. Every single bit of it.

While I was rocking with her in that silent house, having broken a cardinal rule of motherhood, watching her eyes flit open and lock mine and her lips spread into a sly smile, I thought to myself “Well now, this sure isn’t something I would have done with my first kid.”

It’s true. I NEVER would have done that with Ava, even if I really really really wanted to. Would have been too worried about it. What if she doesn’t go back to sleep? What if she wakes up at 10pm for the rest of her life? What if what if what if what if. Always so worried about DOING IT WRONG.

But I guess that’s one of the joys of having multiple kids – ya just don’t give a shit any longer. It’s all so damn crazy, what’s one more sleepless night? What’s one more tired day? What’s one more hour spent soothing a toddler?

And in the end, what am I gonna remember?

There’s quite a freedom there. It almost makes up for the fact that there are three kids around irritating me all the time. Almost. ALMOST.

B y the way, on a less cuddly note, do you ever feel like telling your kids when they’re bitching about something totally trivial and ultimately irrelevant (like a lost water bottle or Lego or how their sibling mistreated them again), “Look, you’re gonna have to find somebody more interested in this kind of thing because I can’t even muster a response.”

Oh, okay. Well I do.

Sometimes.

So a few days ago I sort of dropped a few lines about our nanny. Just kinda threw ‘em in there like it was nothin’.

That night at around 3am the thought came into my mind that perhaps that could have sounded a bit pretentious – you know, to just drop in casual conversation how rad my nanny is. Very Desperate Housewives. Right? (I haven’t actually seen that show, but I THINK it’s about rich suburban white people, and, presumably, their nannies.)

Now, since this thought came to me at 3am I decided not to act upon it immediately. Because some pretty weird shit comes into my mind at 3am, and seems to make a whole lotta sense at that particular juncture. You know like I’ll decide one of my kids is really truly for REALS suffering due to my absences and if I don’t do something RIGHT NOW he or she may actually not make it. And she or he will end up a crackhead and all he or she will say is “well, you shoulda seen my terrible mother.”

Which is ridiculous, because everybody knows I’m a freaking fantastic mother.

So clearly 3am thoughts are not to be trusted.

This one, however, stuck with me. And came at 3pm and then again about 10 minutes ago. Therefore, I write this: we are not rich. We only have a nanny because it would have cost MORE to put them in day care. More, people. MORE.

And my husband works three (yep, count ‘em, three) jobs. And I have student loans. And I work as a consultant. In other words, there ain’t no trust fund up in here.

Now please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t have anything against rich people (WELL, I might, but mostly because I’m jealous) and I don’t even care if you thought for a minute I was storing millions in my sock drawer – what I don’t like is the idea of coming across as a pretentious woman of privilege who doesn’t recognize it and assumes everybody lives the way she does.

We live paycheck to freaking paycheck and my kids go to public school and I may or may not fantasize about not living like this some day. And I know we’re DAMN LUCKY to have what we have.

So there you have it.

I’m just keepin’ it real.

We don’t have much. Our mortgage is less than most people’s rent (read: um, modest accommodations?). But we have jobs and therefore, I don’t complain. I actually never complain about our finances (I mean DUH of course I complain to my husband and in my head) but I don’t complain to others. Because we have jobs. And that’s a lot.

So anyway, forgive me if I “name dropped” the nanny.

I’m still the broke ass I’ve always been, just with a freaking incredible nanny, who kisses my kids and hugs me and makes homemade tortillas and fits in this house like a third parent. Only she’s much better at this than I am. She’s amazing. And if I believed in blessings I’d say we are “blessed.”

But I don’t say shit like that.

So instead I’ll just say the universe gave us an incredible gift when we crossed paths with this woman.

Anyway I gotta go. I’m meeting my massage therapist in my steam room in five minutes and my cook is yelling something about being pissed at the butler. Silly helpers.

Oh wait never mind. That yelling I hear is my oldest kid screaming about the youngest kid putting her hands in the toilet, and there’s pee in it.

Shouldn’t I have staff to handle that?

I’m a real blogger now.

Know why?

Because Courtney at JudithShakes Designs created for me a real blog and a real logo (and, therefore, a real identity). Thanks, Courtney, for that.

Not only does the woman [obviously] create badass websites, but she has a brilliant wry sense of humor, an approachable, totally not annoying communication style, and I’m sure if she didn’t live in whatever god-forsaken humidity-ridden state she’s currently residing in we’d totally be BFFs. Or some bizarre derivative thereof.

And not only that. I also have a Facebook page – you can also get there in the LOGO – how rad is that? (And I’d really really like it if you’d like me. Please like me. I need you to like me. I’ll die if you don’t like me. I’ll camp on your front lawn and weep until you like me. (I’m practicing my codependent routine. How was it?)).

Okay but seriously I only have 29 “likes” – kinda pathetic, especially considering I KNOW I have AT LEAST 33 readers.

Ha.

And you can follow me on The Twitter – (oh hells yeah I have a custom one). I go on The Twitter occasionally to say really profound shit in 140 characters or less. Actually it’s more like 136, since 4 are automatically taken up with the F word.

Or you can subscribe. Since I’m a real blogger now you probably feel compelled to subscribe or follow. No worries. Just go with that.

Also, since apparently when cool things happen they happen all at once…my new best friend nominated me for CBS Sacramento’s Most Valuable Blog Award…please vote for me by clicking the badge on the left or THIS LINK. I’ll owe you my life. Apparently you can vote every day. That would be totally fine with me.

And… I’m done with the shameless self-promotion. You’ll never ever see it again.

I lie.

But seriously, what do you think of the new digs?

P.S. If you hate it, I’ll tell you it’s fine and that I appreciate the feedback while simultaneously planning ways to quietly destroy you. (That’s my passive aggressive codependent impersonation. You like?)