So I hesitated writing this post because I don’t really have anything helpful to say on the topic of bullying.

But then I remembered this entire blog is devoted to unhelpfulness, so I figured “what the hell” and I’m writing it.

I have no particular insight into what makes a kid mean, no meaningful perspective on what it is that makes one kid a rampant teaser and another kid the victim of it.

And I don’t know what I’ve done to make my kids more the “victims” than the perpetrators. Perhaps I’ve done nothing. Perhaps they are the perpetrators and I just don’t know it.

Although to be honest I doubt the latter, mostly because they tend to come home telling me about how they have been made fun of, and how they don’t understand it, or they tell me about how mean some kids are to other kids, and how it’s sad. And they are visibly disturbed.

But I guess it’s critical for me to say that my kids aren’t angels. They aren’t perfect. They aren’t kind and patient and understanding all the time. I’ve read blogs by women who think their kids shit rainbows.

I am not that woman.

But I am pretty confident in asserting that my kids are not mean. I watch them with their friends. I have never had a complaint from any friend, teacher or acquaintance telling me my kid was involved in teasing or bullying, but I have seen both of them in tears, more than once, on account of other kids making fun of them in a repeated, disturbing way.

With Ava, the teasing has become sexual in nature and I’ve had to raise some serious hell in her school.

And when these moments occur (you can read about the saddest one HERE), when I’m watching the pain in my kids’ eyes, doing my best to trudge through it with them, comfort and hold them, I wonder, really truly wonder, what it is exactly that makes some kids bullies and some kids not.

Are they born that way? I doubt it.

Is it their parents? Are they neglectful? Are these kids vying for power and attention at school because they have none at home? I don’t know.

Are they abused? Does meanness run in their families? Are they teased by their parents? Are they criticized and harassed? Maybe.

Is it television? I don’t really see how that would work, but whatever, most bad shit can be blamed on television so I thought I’d throw that one in.

Or are they simply not taught right from wrong and respect for others? This one seems the most plausible to me. Maybe they aren’t “born bad” and they don’t have excessively horrid parents, but maybe those parents have not given their children a moral compass, a sense of “okay” and “not okay in any circumstance.” And so, they think something is funny and they just roll with it. And maybe they start and the other kids laugh and it’s exhilarating and fun and empowering, and nobody’s ever explained that that particular laugh is at the expense of another. Another’s heart. Another’s well-being. Another’s feeling of acceptance. Another’s RIGHT TO JUST BE.

And when I think about it, there is one thing my husband and I absolutely do not tolerate under any circumstances, and that’s the act of bullying in our home. My kids are not allowed to use their size or their power to dominate a sibling or anybody else. When I see it I make them set it right immediately, no matter where we are, and we talk about why it was wrong. Even grabbing a toy out of Georgia’s hand is unacceptable.

We don’t call names.

We don’t make sweeping insults that slash another’s character.

And we recognize when we have hurt each other. We watch them cry. We feel what we have done and we FUCKING APOLOGIZE.

In these routines I’m trying to teach my kids some morality. Some sense of “it ain’t right to make somebody cry because I feel like it or it’s fun or I want something.”

I am responsible for my words. And the consequences of my words.

And my actions. And the consequences of my actions.

And it isn’t right to GAIN ANYTHING by hurting somebody else, by violating their rights, by making them feel small and powerless and alone.

Or, maybe they’re just born that way.

I don’t know. I guess I just want my kids to obey what is probably the only solid, universal advice in the history of the world:

“Don’t be a dick.”

And if you can, maybe support each other occasionally, even people you don’t know, like you would your little sister just learning to walk, as you plod along this rugged path we all walk, stumbling, falling, grabbing for the hand of somebody who might actually give a shit.

1. The problem with writing these posts on Sunday is that I really can’t remember what I did on Monday or Tuesday or, come to think of it, Wednesday through Friday. So I sit down and reflect and all I get is “I did busy stuff, like I do every week.”
2. A few moments always stand out, however, like one I had at the gym a few days ago. I was on the elliptical alongside my friend and we were chatting (which so vastly improves cardio workouts), and suddenly this angry-looking female on my right taps my arm. “Will you lower your voice, please?” She said it with a glare and a really disgusted voice. My initial thought was “fuck you Satan,” but I didn’t say that for fear of getting kicked out of the gym. So I stared for a moment too long and mumbled “whatever,” then proceeded to increase my voice level at least two octaves.
3. This is bad behavior. I would get mad at my kids for such behavior. But she was JUST SUCH A BITCH. She glared at me for the duration of my workout. My friend (being significantly more reasonable than her companion), suggested we relocate. But I didn’t want to. That would ruin it.
4. Next time I’m going to ask myself WWJD? and turn the other cheek.
5. Speaking of assholes (the woman, not Jesus), I’m gearing up to write a blog post about what turns kids into bullies. In the past two weeks both my kids have been subjected to horrible bastard children (Ava has been straight sexually harassed at school – don’t worry. I REGULATED), and I’ve really started wondering what it is that turns kids toward that kind of behavior. I mean my kids are annoying, and often misbehave, but they are not MEAN. They are very, very far from mean. Ya feel me? Totally different deal.
6. Have you ever noticed men don’t use windshield wipers? I find that odd. I always have to tell my husband “dude. Water all over windshield. WIPERS.” I thought it was just my husband, but via a friend’s FB post, I have since learned it’s like a male species problem.
7. We currently have two cats, two guinea pigs and a dog. How the hell did that happen? It’s like a fucking menagerie in here. Damn cute furry things. Get me every time.
8. Yesterday I was assaulted by a childless judgmental female wonder. Our conversation went something like this:

Childless wonder: “Hi Janelle, I remember you from grad school last year.”

Me: “Oh, hi!”

[Bunch of banter about whatever, leading to this]:

Me: “Well I have three kids so I’m super busy and tired. Plus I’m still in grad school and I work part-time as a consultant.”

Childless wonder: “Wow, three kids?! That’s a lot.”

Me: “Yes. Yes it is.”

Childless wonder: “What does your husband do?”

Me: “He’s an ironworker and he works on his father’s ranch.”

Childless wonder, with fifteen layers of insinuated judgment: “And you can afford all those kids?”

[And here I begin realizing I’m talking to a smelly pirate hooker.]

Me: “Well, yes, sort of. I mean, we eat and wear clothes and stuff.”

Childless wonder: “Huh, yes. But sending all three of them to college will be difficult. You aren’t having any more are you?”

Me, with palpable sarcasm and disdain: “Yes, yes we are. We are having as many kids as possible. You see, the more kids we have the more we get from the government in the form of welfare and food stamps and medical care. My goal is ten.”

And then I walked away.

Next time, I will ask myself WWJD? and turn the other cheek.

But she was JUST SUCH A BITCH.

Here’s a picture of one of the kids I [apparently] can’t afford. He probably would have behaved better. No, for sure he would have. When the bar is low, success is pretty easy.

For some reason, I still get excited about upcoming holidays, even though they pretty much always suck, at least a good portion of them. I anticipate what the day is going to look like even though IT HAS NEVER ONCE ACTUALLY LOOKED LIKE THAT.

There is a big, scary disconnect between what I imagine and what actually happens. Always is.

And yet, it surprises me every time.

Take Easter for example. Here’s how it went in my head:

I wake to the sweet sound of the kids in my bed, “Mama! Daddy! It’s Easter!” I feel energized and blessed.

We all hop out of bed (haha, “hop”, get it? like the Easter bunny?) and run into the kitchen, where we see three beautiful baskets of small, fair trade wooden toys I bought the week before, along with some raw organic chocolate.

I take pictures as my kids open their baskets, basking in the joy that is family life.

We eat a nutritious breakfast as a family.

We dye eggs together, laughing and playing.

Everybody takes a bath and gets dressed in their Easter outfits, anticipating the arrival of relatives and the trip to Grandma’s house.

My family arrives and we all stare at the beautiful dressed-up kids, taking pictures happily in the front yard and smiling.

We do a little egg hunt in the yard, the kids skipping around with their baskets in the sun. I take pictures.

Finally, we all pile in the car with grins and giggles to cruise over to Grandma’s house, where we will eat lamb and ham and 75 desserts.

The ONLY PART of that that actually happened was the last part of the last sentence.

Check it out. Here’s how it happened in reality:

I wake to sound of Georgia yelling “mama,” glance at the time and say “holy mother of god.” I bang on Mac and demand he get up, realizing almost immediately, of course, that that ain’t gonna work, cause all three of them are up. I feel like I’d rather saw off my left arm than get out of bed. I remember: “Fuck, it’s Easter,” which means I must behave, so I pretend I’m happy and I get up.

I roll out of bed in a confused haze and stumble into the kitchen, where we see three beautiful baskets of fifty-five different types of candy from Target and a few crap toys made in China. I didn’t have time to order the little wooden wonders I had in mind, nor did I have time to get the raw organic chocolate from the co-op, so I filled the baskets with stuff from Target, at 1am Easter morning.

I try to find my camera but can’t, so I just watch them carefully opening their baskets but mostly focus on making coffee.

They eat Fun-dip for breakfast. We eat eggs and toast. Georgia starts assaulting everybody’s baskets, diving for choke-able chocolate items and making the other kids squeal.

I find my camera and begin the photographic mission from hell, which will continue all morning. “Kids. Sit together. Let’s take a picture with your baskets.” They ignore me. I get louder. “KIDS, NOW!” They all sit together but one of them is looking away at any given moment.

Suddenly in a moment of terror I realize my family is coming over in approximately 4 hours and it looks like our house has been hit by an Easter-vomiting tornado. The panic begins. I demand immediate action. We spend the next 2 hours attempting to fix about six months of inattention to the details of our home, such as, the tops of bookshelves and corners.

By this point I’m beginning to hate my life. I’m racing around like a fucking banshee in attempt to bring my house even NEAR the point of acceptable, and while I’m doing so, my kids are taking turns rolling on the ground singing the Good-Luck-Charlie theme song and/or avoiding me. By the time I’m done with my cleaning rampage everybody wants to off themselves.

MUST DYE EGGS.

We go outside and dye eggs for about 10 minutes, since we’re now running late. Rocket spends most of the time throwing the eggs at the back fence. Ava spends her time screaming at Rocket to stop throwing eggs at the back fence.

I look at the clock and see we have ONE FUCKING HOUR before my family arrives.

I gather them up, we race into the bathtub, I start ironing. I’m barking orders and things are getting tight. Nobody wants to bathe. I threaten great bodily harm if they don’t just do it NOW. All parenting skill has left the building. I am now in psycho get-the-kids-dressed-up-for-a-big-family-event mode.

Rocket doesn’t want a belt. Ava’s shoes don’t match. Georgia hates getting dressed. Finally I get them in their outfits.  I feel like a ran a 5K. (I have no idea what a 5K is, FYI.)

My family shows up. I need a few pictures of the kids before they ruin their outfits. I get them all outside by the bush. Rocket is scowling. Georgia is screaming. After every shot, Rocket bolts off and I look at Mac, mouthing the words “I’m gonna fucking kill ‘em.” Ava is the only one who participates. I love Ava.

We hide eggs. The kids find eggs. I can’t get any pictures because they’re running around like bats outta hell. I’m trying to keep Georgia away from the candy filled ones on account of the dress she’s wearing. I succeed, but only because I’m chasing her around like an eagle and prey – and it’s not fun.

Running late, feeling like I’ve already lived an entire day, we pile in the car to go to Grandma’s house, but not before we run around trying to locate everybody’s play clothes for later, last-minute must-have items (purses and hats and diapers and Matchbox cars). Finally, we all pile in the car with stress and bad attitudes and cruise over to Grandma’s house,

where we eat lamb and ham and 75 desserts.

You see how I bolded that last line?

That’s because I focus on the positive.

That’s me, always lookin’ at the bright side.

Here’s the rest of the bright side…and what will keep me going, looking forward to next Easter like a delusional idiot…

Rocket picked out his own outfit, of course, from head to toe.

THE ONE TIME GEORGIA SMILED

Until next year, people.

Happy Good Friday!

I have no idea what that means except that it’s the Friday before Easter. And something about meat. or fish. And Jesus.

Circle Time Rules

ANYWAY, let’s move on. Usually we have Circle Time! on Saturdays, but I’m livin’ on the edge and doing it on Friday. I used to do this weekly, but now I only do it when I have something fabulous to “share” — such as this song, “Lonely Boy,” by The Black Keys – and the fact that my baby girl is finally herself again.

Let’s all take a moment of silence in appreciation of strong-ass antibiotics and doctors who give a shit.

So, if you can watch this video without experiencing a profound improvement in your mood, then, well, I don’t know. But I’m not worried because I don’t think it’s possible.

I love this band, this song and THIS FUCKING GUY. He is a boss. I want to know him.

Watch, enjoy.

xo

I don’t usually write about my kids and their illnesses because let’s be honest, it’s boring. But I gotta tell you about poor Georgia. Well, and I guess, me.

She’s had a fever for five days. We were told that 4 days is the longest time a virus will cause a fever, so we tried taking her in yesterday (day 4) but the urgent care was closed. We took her today and it turns out the baby girl has a urinary tract infection and possibly a kidney infection.

They found this out by inserting a catheter in her.

And I wasn’t there.

I was at school. It’s a long story. The timing was off. I couldn’t get there. My mom was with her.

As I talked to the doctor to approve the procedure, I wanted to die. I thought of my baby in that office, in pain, without her mama. I thought of the agony. I thought of the fear. I thought of her thoughts. I saw her tears and heard her cries and felt them in the depths of my soul.

And even though the “procedure” was only five seconds, and even though I raced home, and even though I held her for hours, kissed her forehead as she rested on my chest…despite all this, beyond it all, I raged.

I raged because I wasn’t there. I raged because I’ve made the choice to be in school. I raged because WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?

Why wasn’t I there? What is more important than that?

It’s so hard, this gig. This working-while-parenting. This education-while-parenting. Sometimes it just doesn’t feel worth it. Sometimes I think maybe we should just stay poor. And I should just drop my “goals.”

But then again, I’m not sure I can.

I wonder sometimes if it were easier to be a mother back in the 19^th century when things were simpler. When a woman had babies and worked in the home and made a home. When she knew what her life was and it was all there was, and there wasn’t such a pull of “I could be more” and “I need to achieve” and “I must make something of myself.” Being a mother and building a home was making something of oneself. And indeed it is.

Yes, I realize there were women who had all that drive, way back then, just like I do. And I realize women couldn’t vote and that ain’t right…and duh. There were problems – not trying to glorify anything.

But society was different. Society didn’t sell the particular lie that we’ve been sold: THAT WE CAN DO IT ALL.

Because we cannot. We cannot do it all. There is always a cost. There is always a sacrifice. We cannot be working mothers and fulltime mothers …fulltime mothers and high-achieving career women…without a cost.

And the cost is today.

The cost is a toddler on a table in a doctor’s office, enduring horrifying pain without the arms and breast and whispers of her mother.

That is my cost.

And it hurts.

Fuck all that feminist stuff. Screw the politics. You know I’m so left I’ve almost come around to the right. That ain’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about what it’s like to attempt to do it all. The on-the-ground experience of trying to have a career and raise a family at the same damn time.

And realizing that it just isn’t working.

Why do I keep going? Why don’t I quit? Why don’t I drop grad school and be with my kids?

Because there’s a part of me that wants more. There’s a part of me that has always wanted a career in teaching. Because it’s the “me” separate and apart from my kids. It’s a “me” I love. It’s a “me” I can’t just abandon, either.

But it’s a “me” I resent. It’s a “me” I want to destroy sometimes. Shut her up. Silence her. Become that woman complete in her home, content in the currents of her daily life, fulfilled by the place of her family, rooted in love, in children, in this.

And yet I am not. I am not that woman.

And so I face the costs. I endure this pain. The pain of my arms and breast and whispers falling useless, in that moment of separation, as they frantically reach for my child who needs me. Needs me when I am not there.

I would say I’m sorry, Georgie, but the words fall useless, too.