Every week, while darting around the streets of my life, I think to myself “next week, it’s gonna be calmer.”

Next week, it’s gonna be easier.

Next week, I won’t have so much to do.

I will rest. I will have a little time. I will be less frantic. I’ll breathe.

Next week.

And yes, you guessed it. “Next week” never comes. But like an insane person thinking circumstances will change even though no circumstance has changed, I continue to rely on my hope for “next week.”

I wake. I prepare. I cook. I homeschool. I shower. I drive. I work. I study. I call. I call back. I deposit. I buy. I race. I listen. I study. I write. I chase.  I do so much more.

I crawl into bed.

I sleep, or I do not sleep.

And then, I do it again.

Often, like yesterday for example, I’m driving home from work at 4pm and I’m delighted that tonight I finally – for the first time in god knows how long – get to go home and chill (well, “chill”, as much as you can with a neurotic toddler bolting around). Sit. Eat. REST. Maybe read. Do nothing. Definitely do nothing. And my husband calls and says “Tonight I gotta cut that beef (he’s a butcher at his dad’s ranch, in addition to an ironworker), and Rocket has a baseball game at 6pm, and Ava has one at 7pm. Sorry.”

And I do it again.

Next week.

Next week I’ll have less to do.

Nope, I won’t. There will be the same things to do. And the same person to do them.

I’m not pitying myself. I dig my life. It wouldn’t break my heart if I were handed some very large sum of money and could therefore work less, but I don’t want my life to suddenly become less busy, because that would mean less family, less mothering, less joy. It wouldn’t destroy me to learn that somebody died and left me a butler, and a driver, and a cook. But hey.

I’m not THAT insane.

What stings a little sometimes is the stuff left undone. Like that book I’ve been writing. I’m on page 40. I’ll never get off page 40.

I have something to say in that book, but I don’t have time to say it.

And those books on my nightstand. I want to read them.

And the blog posts in my head that will take a little time and focus. I’d like to write them.

And that call to my friend I’ve been meaning to make.

And that theory I’d like to read about that idea I had about that Melville story I read. A year ago.

But alas, this is it. This is the life. This is the life for us women (and some men, I’m sure) who work for a living and have kids and attempt to do right by them, and ourselves.

This is the life for awhile, at least.

Until next week comes for real.

And I miss this one terribly, because it was the time when my kids were little and my life was insane.

Ladies, I’m just so tired.

Do you ever get that sometimes? That tired that’s more than tired, more than sleepy, more than weak. That tired that washes over you like a 100-foot wave, pounding you into the depths until you just collapse. The mind, the emotions, the legs. All of it. Down.

Thank God next week it’ll be easier.

1. Quick. Somebody tell me what sort of developmental nightmare happens at 21-22 months. Georgia WILL NOT sleep. Well, she will, but only in 2-hour increments and after about an HOUR of rocking, soothing, patting, fucking ET CETERA. She had a sinus infection earlier this week; I am praying to God almighty that that’s the problem.
2. Speaking of problems, I got an ear infection. WHATTHEFUCK? Those only happen to kids. Uncool, almighty God.
3. In other news, ear infections really reallyreally hurt and I now believe my kids are bad-asses, having endured so many with so much less complaining than their mother exhibited.
4. I hate leaf-blowers. We’ve been over this so I won’t repeat myself. But I hate them.
5. I hate leaf-blowers, but I love my friends. I have amazing friends. I like having friends. There was a time when I had none, on account of being a self-centered drunk who couldn’t call people back, show up, or be nice.
6. There is a bird (some sort of jay I think) who sits in a tree in our backyard, and occasionally the telephone pole behind it (yes, our yard is as stunning as you’re probably envisioning) AND CHIRPS AND SING ALL FUCKING…NIGHT. Did you catch that? NIGHT. The damn thing makes the most insane, ear-piercing racket — during the night. What sort of crackhead bird tweets and sings at night? He does it in the day, too. But for obvious reasons, it’s the night thing that kills me. So you know what I do? I throw baseballs at it. While naked.
7. Allow me to explain. I sleep naked. OOOOOOO, kinky. No, just comfortable. I’ve always slept without clothes. Like forever. So I’m lying there in bed and I hear this bird “song” (if it’s a song, it’s death metal played loudly, backwards, and with scratches) and it’s so loud people – SO LOUD – I can’t sleep. And it’s like 1am and the whole house is asleep, so I go outside. I don’t put clothes on because who does that? Too much work. Plus I figure it’s dark outside and if some weirdo wants to peek through my fence all night on the off chance somebody might walk by naked, well, he/she deserves a little glimpse. That’s some devotion. Anyway the first time this jay and I had a little midnight encounter I tried rushing the tree and yelling at it to scare him away, but it didn’t even phase the bastard. So I look around. At my feet I observe a bucket of baseballs. Ah ha! I pick one up and I chuck it at the tree. Fucker flew off immediately. Since that worked so well, I’ve been doing it nightly for like 5 days. I’m so good at it now I can throw the baseball, have it go through the tree and hit the telephone pole behind it, so it falls back into our yard (as opposed to our neighbor’s yard, where they were ending up before).
8. I couldn’t make this shit up.
9. You know, honestly, I’m not sure I have anything left to say after telling that whole story. I think we’ll just leave it at that, as an explanation of how my week has been.

Can we all please take a moment to notice how much I do not look like a woman who throws baseballs at birds while naked, at least in the following photograph?

You see, I pull it off well. At least I think I do. I do, don’t I?

Nevermind, don’t answer. It’s probably best.

How cute is it that Rocket’s looking up at his daddy? Adore.

This week, may all squawking Jays be eradicated from your life through a weird bird-destroying disease.

Or baseballs.

xo

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.

What I learned this week…

1. Okay so I totally don’t remember this week. AGAIN. I do, however, remember yesterday, mostly because it was Mother’s Day. Ya see that? That’s what you call “on it.”
2. I had a wonderful day – spent it with a shitload of family members at my grandmother’s house. Plus, after years of explaining to my husband that on Mother’s Day he has to: 1.) be home; 2.) buy me something; and 3.) make me coffee – it appears he has finally figured it out. Go Mac.
3. I used to do this thing where I would not tell Mac what I wanted (though I would punish him greatly for not knowing) because I thought he should “just know” and that by telling him, I was somehow belittling the romance or sincerity of the act. Then I hit Stage 3 and realized it was never going to happen any other way, which means I would spend every holiday for the next fifty years pissed off and sad, and I realized that for some reason, the man doesn’t value notes on cards as much as his wife does — so I shared with him (GASP) that I like getting little notes and it means a lot to me, so please, do it. Fucker. And now, ELEVEN YEARS LATER, he writes me things like this on Mother’s Day: “You have made our house a home and have raised beautiful children. Thank you for being you. I love you, Mac.” And it feels very good, and sincere. Mostly. You know, enough.
4. I have a feeling #3 may deserve a blog post all of its own – that thing we do where we don’t tell partners what we need but destroy them when they don’t figure it out. Oh come ON. I am not the only one that does that.
5. Am I?
6.  Thank you for your nice comments on the Time Magazine post. I read that Time crap and had it rolling in my head for 2 whole days – over and over and over – through the night, in the shower, while driving – and I just didn’t know what I wanted to say, though I knew something had to be said. And then I just figured “well, something’s in there…” and I sat down and started writing. Fifteen minutes later that thing was written and I gotta say, I felt liberated and kind of empowered – it’s like my little motherhood manifesto. Your responses made my day. Truly. I don’t always respond to every comment (okay fine I pretty much never do), but please know that I read them and reread them and they mean a TON to me, and keep me writing. It is only a lack of time that keeps me from writing back religiously.
7. So today I was on campus with Rocket (long story) and we were outside. I was introducing him to a couple people I know. He mumbled “hello,” then almost immediately noticed a couple trees nearby with excellent climbing potential. In a flash, he was gone. Climbing the trees. I love it when they climb the trees. They never seem happier and healthier than when they are climbing trees.
8. Today Rocket was suffering from allergies and I attempted to console him by saying “Well, they’ll be gone soon.” To which he responded “yeah, we’ll get through this and then just enter the next state of irritation.”
9. How the hell did I raise such a little cynic? It must be his dad’s fault.
10. However, I couldn’t have said it better myself. “The next state of irritation.” Awesome.

Happy day-late Mother’s Day to the best mothers I know (well, cyber know – but still).

Okay I realize this picture is old, and Ava’s hand is cut off, but it’s one of my most favorite pictures EVER of the first two kids. And so, in honor of mother’s day, I’m putting it up. And then there’s a picture of Georgie in a bike helmet in a red tub, which also doesn’t suck.

Ava and Rocket in front of a redwood tree.

Safety First.

xo

Hey Time Magazine. Are you man enough?

Are you man enough to take it?

Can you take my motherhood?

Can you take my breastfeeding and baby-wearing and co-sleeping?

Can you take my bottles and strollers and cribs?

Can you comprehend my ambiguity?

Can you fathom my depths…

Can you breathe under the weight of my power?

As I dodge your attacks like a milky stealth fighter – as I stride along the battleground with cracked heels and giant breasts and a mouth whispering fuck you, and goodnight moon.

Are you man enough to know you have no place here?

Are you man enough to step aside?

You and your misogyny mean nothing to me. You and your sensationalism, your breastfeeder-gone-pedophile assault,  your  airstrike against us: mothers, all mothers, as you fuel fires for profit, to separate, diminish, annihilate.

Your violence is a buzz in my ear, a chuckle rolling off my tongue, a speck of dust in my eye, as I kiss the feet of the child I birthed in a tub in my living room.

under the knife in a sterile room.

on my back in a hospital with an epidural –

and dignity.

Are you man enough?

I know what you’re doing. I get it. You’ve lost your footing, in the face of these women you can’t control. These women who baffle you. These women who raise your children and fight your wars, pay your mortgage, lead your country and make you squirm.

Squirm.

It’s intimidating, isn’t it? Us.

You think if you divide us you’ll destroy us.

Ah, but you won’t.

We’ve taken it all already. Taken it all. Through immigration and migration and slavery and the suburbs. Through sickness through booze through death. Through oppression and suppression and depression. Through beating. Through black. Through light. Through loss. Through all.

We’re mothers.

Are you man enough to take it?

All of us?

Are you man enough to step aside?

Out of here. Out of this warmth – this red – this raging burn of love and hips and hands and milk – infinite chains of women you’ve never known. And will never know.

But I do.

We’re all here. All of us. Every form. Right here.

With nothin’ to prove.

Are you man enough to see it?

Are you man enough to let it go?

Because I can promise you one thing,

WE

are

mom

enough.

In our sleep, in our bones, in our weakness and in our strength – our many hues of the same undying strength – we’ve always been enough.