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?

Okay fine, I admit it. I “liked” Babble.com’s Facebook page to increase my access to material for “Idiot Surfing” posts.

That’s not because I’m a bad person. Well maybe it is a little. But mostly it’s because I’m efficient: any time you ask thousands of people for their opinions on, well, anything, you’re going to get at least a few hundred batshit crazy responses.  All kinds of idiots, all in one place, all talking about parenting. Yay!

But I’m about to unfriend them. Or unlike them. Or both, if that’s possible.

Because beyond breaking every known rule of Facebook decorum (oh yeah, it exists) by posting something every single hour, the questions they pose for their readers are HANDS DOWN the stupidest questions ON THE PLANET. I don’t understand how people even click on the comments section let alone read them let alone respond to them.

Here’s a little gathering of the nonsense for ya:

“How old is too old for a stroller?” (Um, I don’t know? When they don’t FIT?)

“Ever wonder if those tantrums could mean something else?” (Right. Thank you. Because I need one more thing increasing my suspicions that my child suffers from some previously unknown deeply rooted disciplinary dysfunction due to (of course) poor parenting.)

“Do you ever feel overwhelmed as a parent?” (No, not at all. I totally got this. Are there people overwhelmed with the prospect of building somebody’s foundation for life? WEIRD.)

“Mohawks on toddlers? Are they appropriate?” (Who cares if they’re appropriate, they’re CUTE.)

“How much sleep does your kid get a night (better yet — how much sleep do YOU get)?!” (Do we REALLY have to bring up the sleep thing AGAIN? Can’t we all just agree that kids don’t fucking sleep and therefore neither do you and it fucking sucks. The end.)

“Do you think prettier moms get more playdates? (Find out why this mom says yes.)” (I don’t care why this mom ‘says yes,’ because it’s a stupid question in the first place.)

Can’t people just lighten up a TAD? Why does everything have to be this big QUESTION we put on Babble and write about and get all judgmental and opinionated and pissed off about? Allegedly these people have kids. How do they have time to debate hair-coloring during pregnancy? Most of the time when I [attempt to] read mainstream parenting books and magazines, I find myself asking one question. Just one. And that is, oh yeah, you guessed it: WHO THE FUCK CARES?

Appropriate stroller age? Seriously?

Prettier moms? Yes, since I’m in junior high that question interests me greatly.

And the thing that really blows the mind is the responses people give. “I think it’s bad parenting to let your kid sit in a stroller beyond 3 years old.” “Every kid I know with a Mohawk is mean and badly behaved. Coincidence?” (I’m not exaggerating the Mohawk one, and yes, it’s going on my next Idiot Surfing post.)

Maybe I’m just so lazy I’m apathetic. But I don’t think so. That stuff really is boring, right? And ultimately irrelevant? I mean after awhile don’t all those “parenting questions” just blur into one giant sense of unknowing?

Am I the only one who ceased looking for answers a long time ago and just surrendered to my ignorance? Resigned. To doing my best with what I’ve got, even when it seems tiny and pale in the face of parenthood?

You know, like when your 9-year-old daughter comes home and excitedly announces she got invited to her first slumber party and you want to be excited but realize you don’t know the parents. And immediately all kinds of images flash like swords into your heart and you want to scream there’s no way in hell you’re going kid, ever – but her face. It’s joyful. New school. New friends. All the girls are going.

You think about meeting the parents first. Obviously. But you can’t tell freak in 30 minutes.

You tell yourself “it’s okay.” She’ll be fine.

But what if she isn’t.

You stand still. In unknowing.

These are the questions I need answered.

Who gives a fuck about strollers.

1. Just for funsies, somebody please explain to me why there’s Christmas stuff in stores and it isn’t Halloween yet.
2. And for even MORE funsies, somebody please explain why I bought an advent calendar from one of those Christmas displays, while simultaneously appalled that it was out in the first place and yet so smitten with this particular wooden calendar I had to buy it, thereby inadvertently answering my own question regarding the presence of those displays: they are out because asshats like me buy things from them, in October, if they’re cute enough (the things, not the asshats).
3. Speaking of asshats, some winner at the farmer’s market got mad at me because I let Georgia walk around and she kept falling on her bottom, LIKE ALL TODDLERS DO WHEN LEARNING TO WALK. I wanted to kill that lady. More on that later. I have a rant that’s gonna knock your socks off. What a stupid cliché. I mean who wants their socks knocked off? How does that even work? Maybe a hat. Or a cardigan. But socks? Everybody knows socks require pulling down and over the heel, so by definition they can’t be “knocked off.” Oh wait. Maybe that’s the point. Weird.
4.  People, I’m losing it, and not because of haphazard advent calendar purchasing or sock-removal questions. I’m in the middle of the semester and it’s become abundantly clear that I bit off more than I can chew [so I guess I’m more “choking” than “losing it” but why get caught up in details?]. Every day feels like a small miracle because I survived and somehow my grades are good and I’m getting shit done. Mostly. Except blog writing. PLEASE don’t leave me. PLEASE don’t get discouraged by my pathetic post frequency and know that it’s temporary. It is. I promise.
5. I sound like a needy ex-boyfriend. My bad. But seriously. Don’t go. I want to write every other day. I have so much shit in my head I can’t stand it and it’s not healthy for it to stay up there, twisting around into nonsense and weirdness, rearing its ugly head at really inconvenient times, such as the grocery store check-out line, when I look at the dude behind the counter and ask him where the hell all these kids came from (referring, of course, to mine) – thinking I’m funny, failing to notice he’s like twelve and has about as much interest in my twisted musings as he has in U.S. third world feminist theory.
6. By the way, what the hell is U.S. third world feminist theory? If you figure it out, please let me know ASAP. I’ve read a whole book about it but still only vaguely know what the fuck she’s talking about.  But in my defense, the author is clearly about twenty-seven times smarter than I am and, I suspect, SLEEPS on a regular basis, which makes her 100 times smarter than me. So I have no chance. Basically. Plus, as you can see, I can’t even craft proper sentences. They’re either one word or run-ons.
7. I don’t think I’m cut out for homeschooling. More on that later.
8. Is it wrong that I buy food the nanny likes to cook so that my kids will actually get home-cooked meals sometimes?
9. Is it wrong that if I had to pick between the nanny and my husband I would probably pick the nanny? Ah, shit. Of course I wouldn’t. But I may think about it for a moment beyond what’s appropriate.
10. BUT the woman cooks homemade flour tortillas, pinto beans and rice. And she cleans my house WHILE WATCHING THE KIDS and when I get home the kids are all happy because she’s all calm and apparently, kids like calm. Who knew? Anyway, poor guy doesn’t have a chance. And if you asked him who he’d rather keep around, he may think about it a moment too long as well. So I feel okay about that. Mostly. Damn it, another one-word sentence.

Here’s to survival, friends. And premature advent calendars and beans, and nannies who change your lives, not necessarily in that order.

Yesterday as I was getting into my car, there was an early teen-aged girl (probably 12 or 13) walking toward me from across the parking lot.

For some reason I watched her for a moment, long enough to see her jump up on a curb, then playfully hop down again – landing with a sort of silly childish stomp. With her first step back in stride she looked around a little nervously, patted her hair and bangs, making sure it was still in place.  There was perhaps a splash of embarrassment in her face as we locked eyes.

In our glance I realized I had witnessed something profound.  [I know it’s weird, but I’ve always been some sort of freak who sees gorgeous sacred moments in parking lots with strangers (and other inconsequential events). But I can’t help it; it’s how I roll. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a Hemingway novel. Or Melville. Definitely something sad and deep and American, and hysterical.]

What I saw was a perfect encapsulation of our girls’ precarious dilemma – all that troubles our beloved tween girls.

All that troubles my little girl.

Because as she trotted alongside her dad she let herself be a kid for a minute – risked her hair getting messed up. Risked her friends seeing. Risked play. Risked abandon.

And I wanted to hug her.

I knew the power of what I was witnessing. I knew how real it is to her. That moment of fear, of regret, of uncertainty “Did I do something wrong? I shouldn’t have done that.” It was all there, in that moment. The juxtaposition – the transformation – right before my eyes, in 3 seconds, from girl to young woman. Almost.

My little girl is there. Nearing there. Standing on the brink of adulthood. Teetering between freedom and restraint. Jumping up on curbs then looking around nervously. Wearing bows in her hair to look more “grown up.” Rolling on the ground like an insane puppy.

Pulling away sometimes.

Playing in the sand with buckets sometimes.

Holding me sometimes.

Patting her hair nervously sometimes.

Trotting along beside me.

Next month she turns 10...

1.)    The problem with avoiding exclamation points is that some sentences require them, unless you’re okay with sounding like a sarcastic ass. Now obviously I am okay with sounding like a sarcastic ass, in fact I quite regularly seek out opportunities for such, but every now and then I’m being serious and want to convey that sentiment.

2.)    For example, I give you the following sentence: “Wow. Good job.” Kinda sounds like I’m actually saying “You bit the big one there, homeslice,” (compared to “Wow! Good job!”)… or… “Congratulations on your third baby. Things should really get interesting now.” That one sounds like I’m about to overnight them an adult size coffin.

3.)    So I find myself using them even though it hurts just the tiniest bit, each time. I know that’s weird, but come on, you know the emphatic use (hA!) of exclamation points is heart-wrenchingly annoying. I know this person (is that vague enough for ya?) who uses one after every sentence, culminating the whole fiasco with two or three right in a row. Emails from her look like this: “We’ve been having a great year! Johnny plays minor league football now, and we’re proud! Samantha is swimming and loves her dolls! And next month we’re heading to the Grand Canyon for vacation!!!“ [Do you or do you not know this type of writer and do you or do you not want to break their shins?]

4.)    I should spend less time contemplating exclamation points and more time doing one of the things on my list, such as preparing lessons for my son (I haven’t done that ONCE EVER – it’s always this off-the-cuff thing), or reading for my classes, or writing the annotated bibliography that’s due on Wednesday, which I haven’t started. All of these would be better options than reflecting on punctuation, but that’s how I roll.

5.)    Last night I went to sushi with Erin and Kim who blog here and here. They are great women and remind me how much it doesn’t suck to have smart, down-to-earth, compassionate friends who don’t give a shit if your skirt is wrinkled and your shirt purchased at Target and your make-up barely visible and your hair not done.

6.)    I hear there are some real super-snob moms out there. I may have observed a few from afar, but I’m guessing they take one look at my disheveled ass and bad attitude and say to themselves “Um, No.”

7.)    Oddly, I’m not losing over sleep over their disdain.

8.)    I am, however, losing sleep over all kinds of other things, such as whether or not we can brush the matts out of the dog’s rear-end or if we need to shave it, and if we do shave it, how much will it scare the little fella (given his fear of anything mechanical) and also, will the hair stick in the shaver? IF so, will Mac care that I used his shaver to shave the dog’s butt? Or maybe I can just pull the hair out of the blades before he sees? OR MAYBE I should ditch the whole scheme thus far concocted and take the dog to the groomer. But I don’t have an appointment for the groomer. Do they take walk-ins? And how much does they cost anyway…? Ohhhh and they could also trim his nails since I’m too scared to do it. Are they open now? I wish they were open now. I’d get up right now and make an appointment.

9.)    I am.not.exaggerating. This goes on for hours and hours and hours no matter how many bottles  pills of melatonin I take or gallons of chamomile I drink or repetitions of a mantra or prayer or following my breath just like Thich Nhat Han says.

10.) So I’m admitting surrender, letting go of my personal desire to be pill-free and going this morning to the doctor where I shall announce: “HOOK IT UP, Doctor, lest I murder my children and end up hand-plucking my dog’s butt hair with tweazers.”

And on that happy note, I shall see you all soon. Hopefully more often than last week. Kiss.

Oh, and check these out.

Georgia is starting to walk for real...

and Rocket decided to get dressed up for his daddy's birthday.