Tomorrow my husband turns 30.

Yes, baby boy. I know. I know.

I robbed the cradle. When I met him he had just turned 19. I was 21. I thought if I got a young one I could mold him into whatever I wanted.

I thought wrong.

Actually that’s not how it happened. I didn’t really choose him. He was sort of chosen for me, by whatever it is that determines that sort of thing. We met and the whole thing felt like “oh, you’re here, okay,” and that was it. We were together. There was no dating or uncomfortableness or discussion. We were just together. I loved him completely and totally, immediately.

And I love him now.

When I met him he was a scrawny fro-headed ranch boy with a giant overgrown untrimmed beard and the warmest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and eye-lashes that brushed the tops of his cheeks. The first night we met (we were partying at my house) I couldn’t really tell what he looked like due to excessive facial hair, so I got him drunk and shaved his beard off. (Don’t say I’m not classy.) He kept calling my “Jennifer” or some nonsense and I kept shaving. I saw that he was indeed handsome, and confident and a smart-ass, and kind, but it wasn’t all that that made me try to convince him to not leave (incidentally he stayed, passed-out face-down on my futon). Romance is the word you’re looking for. Romance.

It was something else that drew me to him.

Something I can’t really describe.  Something like coming home. Something like settling down next to your best friend, who, incidentally, happens to be the hottest male to ever cross this good planet.

Eleven years later he is no longer scrawny, though pretty much every other feature remains unscathed. He’s a grown man with broad (gorgeous) shoulders and his pants fit (mostly) and his hair is (usually) contained, and I think it’s pretty safe to say the man is strikingly handsome, but all that held me then – all that I can’t quite put my finger on – all that pulled me close to this stranger – holds me now.

You see, Mac comes from the old school. There’s something about him one doesn’t find very often anymore among people in our generation (and younger).

The man works.

He works.

He serves his family with fierce loyalty.

He works all day as an iron-worker, gets home and takes his kids to the park.

He doesn’t stray. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t feel like it’s somebody else’s job (whatever that is). He gets up and helps. In short, he’s a fucking badass who’s got nothin’ to prove and works on behalf of his family because it’s who he is, it’s what he does. He devotes himself to us. For us. Unceasingly.

I have an incredible amount of respect for this man.

By the way, if I hear one more story about the jackass unemployed deadbeat husband who sits around the house all day playing video games and drinking beer while the wife works 2 jobs, picks up the kids then comes home to make him dinner and clean the house…fuck me people…I’m going to lose it…but I digress.

Anyway, I’m not trying to brag or flaunt or claim I know how a “man” should act – all I’m saying is I believe I am damn lucky to have a husband who works with unflinching energy, who sees his wife and children as his whole life, who wakes up with the baby at 5am on his days off no matter what, so the wife can sleep in – who knows how to lift iron beams, fix shit, AND cradle a newborn.

Yeah, his fingers are black from grease. And it’s not rare for him to have chicken blood in his ear (he raises free-range chickens in addition to iron-working and butchering on his dad’s ranch). And he quite often smells a little funky. And he’s gone a lot, working.

And he’s about as neat as a flea market. And he has a startling lack of interest in postcolonial theory.

But I stand in awe of him. Every day I find myself thinking “Wow. Doesn’t he get tired? How does he DO that?”

[Well, that, and “how can somebody look that good in overalls?”]

If we’re all hanging out and somebody realizes they forgot something at the car, he’s the first to volunteer to go get it, even though it’s a ½ mile away. He just jumps up and does it. I look around and think to myself “huh, sucks to be you. Now leave me alone and let me enjoy myself.”

Last weekend in Monterey, he got up with Georgia at 5am (even though we both went to bed at 1am) and proceeded to pack her up in the stroller and walk outside, for TWO hours, around the streets of Monterey, so I could sleep. I didn’t even ask him.

I mean who does that shit? And if they do it, who does it willingly?

Lost art, in my opinion. Most dudes I know are lazy-asses just like me. There’s no way in hell I’d do the things he does without at least a few minutes of whining and then, if I did do it, I’d hold it over your head for, oh, I don’t know, forever.

You would owe me for pretty much the rest of your life.

But he doesn’t even bring it up later – and 15 minutes after he gets back to the hotel room, when I still haven’t had enough sleep and I’m cranky and pissed off he says “Janelle calm the fuck down,” then he hands me the coffee and scone he brought me. Even though he could, he never dangles his efforts over my head, you know…“but I just took the baby for 2 hours on a walk around the cold streets of Monterey, what the hell are you complaining about?”

“Nothin’, honey.”

I’m not complaining about anything.

Thank you, my husband.

Thank you, Mac.

Happy 30^th Birthday. I’m glad you’re on this planet. I’m glad we found each other.

You are my heart.

DO YOU SEE THE GREASY BLACK FINGERS? I DON'T LIE.

1. If I were a good blogger, I would publish a post at 6am on the day I want it to go out, because I would have written it the day before, especially if it’s a recurring post, such as, oh I don’t know, a weekly Sunday post (you know, because I could plan it and such).
2. But…I am a bad blogger. Because sometimes (not like now of course) I write posts barely under the wire when I’m so exhausted my eyes are burning and I feel slightly stunted mentally – not to mention a little nervous to write anything for fear of what sort of insane drivel will exit my mouth, possibly resulting in the end of civilization as we know it. See what I mean?
3. This is not because I don’t love you.
4. This is because my life makes Lord of the Flies look organized.
5. There’s something I have never told you. It’s very personal so I’m sure you can understand my hesitance. Anyway, I feel secure in telling you now since we know each other so well: at some point in my young life I acquired Auto-Immune Hippie Disease. This is a sad state of affairs manifesting itself through chronic attendance at jam-band music festivals involving former members of the Grateful Dead, and crying while there, during certain songs Jerry Garcia used to sing.
6. There is no known cure. It’s very sad. I’ll be writing a Facebook post about it very soon, urging people to take action against this debilitating condition and possibly asking for donations.
7. Did you notice I said “young” life? Did you see that? Yeah. That’s because I ain’t old. I’m only 32 years old. This is information I’d like to share with the fuckers who keep calling me “m’am.” It is not my problem you’re 19 and therefore think I’ve rounded the bend and should probably just go ahead and jump in the pine box now because any attempt at life at this point is really just kinda gloomy (though we admire your optimism!)…anyway, the thing is young Jedi, most of the time, 19 is just a fancy 12, AND in just a few short years you (yes YOU) are going to be pushing 35 and looking around wondering wtf happened to the last 10 years and some asshat is going to call you “m’am” and you’re gonna hate it, home slice. hate it. So have a little perspective.
8. I need to get okay with m’am thing. I mean I already wrote a whole blog post about it. And yet, I’m still annoyed. Every time I hear it I feel a little jarred. Like “huh? Me?” And then I realize Oh yes, damn. Me.
9. Okay but seriously. I will never forget standing at the Monterey County Fairgrounds singing “Friend of the Devil” with my little girl and boy and dad and stepmom and husband – dancing with them in their new super-hero peace sign and lightning capes. I told you, it’s a disease. Don’t judge.
10.  At least only the kids got capes. I call that improvement, friends. Perhaps I’m in remission.

I miss Jerry.

He would have approved of these:

Oh and check this out. Video of the show we were at, last night, when they sang “Friend of the Devil.” Thank you, You Tube and hippies.

So a lot of people I know are having babies for the first time. And that got me thinking about the somewhat odd first conversation I often have with first-time moms…”Congratulations! Are you suicidal?”

Okay so I don’t exactly ask that directly. But I almost do.

And here’s why.

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child I was 22 years old, a senior in college, very, very wild, and very very not ready to be a mother. I had the kid because I loved the father  (and by golly I still do) and I didn’t realize how immature I was, because I was immature. All immature people think they’re mature. Bit of a vicious cycle really.

I mean I think that’s why I had her. I don’t really know why exactly. The alternatives just didn’t feel right.

So I began the journey and holy shit was I pissed.

And elated.

And pissed again.

You can read about all that fun here.

So when she finally came out things got a little bit funky. I loved her instantly – would have laid down my life for her the day she was born – could never imagine my life without her. But I was also R.A.G.I.N.G inside, at times. Or at the same time. Concurrently.

It’s really freaking weird. That postpartum depression thing is whack (to use the medical term).

I didn’t know what was happening and nobody mentioned it and I got sicker and sicker. I got so sick I thought if I told the doctor how I was feeling, the doctor would take my baby away. Those were some of the saddest days of my life. Terrifying.

Yep, people, that’s the way it rolled for me.

And then one day my toddler baby daughter cried and cried and wouldn’t sleep and I couldn’t take it one more moment and all those days of sorrow and insanity exploded inside me and I pinched her on the leg in anger. Then I fell to the ground with her in my arms, weeping and begging her to forgive me, realizing in that moment she would probably be better off somewhere else. I had intentionally hurt my baby and I didn’t care if the doctor took her away. (Incidentally, it didn’t even leave a mark on her. But it left a mark on me.)

So I went to the doctor and the doctor said “no more monkeys jumping on the bed.” No, she didn’t. She said “here’s some Zoloft. Take one a day and call me in a month. You have borderline postpartum psychosis but you’ll be fine.”

So I took the pills and I got much better and I survived. The end.

But…given this joyous history, I feel compelled when my friends or even semi-close acquaintances have a baby for the first time (because that first time motherhood is really somethin’) to talk about THEM, as individuals. How are YOU? I can see the baby is fabuloso. But you. Do you want to shoot yourself in the head? Are you wondering when your body is going to go back to normal? Are you searching for your identity?

Are you fucking flipping out?

Because in my case, I felt guilty and insane to have the feelings I had – everybody kept talking about how lucky I was and blessed and whatever – and what am I supposed to say? “Yeah, actually I’m drinking a 1/5 of vodka every night to cover up the fact that I’m really not digging this motherhood thing and if I had my way I’d be shooting pool shit-faced at the pub whilst smoking cigarettes and flirting with my man, as opposed to sitting here at this goddamned mother’s group talking about spit-up and nap schedules and tummy time with a bunch of overjoyed women I can’t relate to and who intimidate the hell outta me because they appear to have been blessed with the mothering gene that I am, obviously, lacking.”

No, I wouldn’t say that.

I’d smile and nod and act okay.

And get sicker and sicker and sicker, alone.

Because nobody talks much about how it sometimes effing BITES to have a kid for the first time. Nobody talks about the death that occurs with the entrance of this new life.

Death?

Yeah, I said it. Death.

And if you’re a mother, you know exactly who dies. The old you. The woman you’ve been your whole life. The identity you’ve nurtured and cradled. Your individuality (to an extent). Your freedom (to an extent).

You are a mother now. You live, all the time, just a little, for that baby. Even when you’re not with them, you’re with them. You may be at work. You may be at school. You may be 10,000 miles away.

But you are not alone. That baby is still with you. Your life is not your own anymore. Not entirely.

No matter where you go, you are tied. Forever. Forever.

Suddenly and completely and irrevocably.

And that, my friends, is fucking intense. No matter how “prepared” you are.

Don’t you think?

So we say goodbye to our old selves. The women we were. The little girl who became a teen who became a woman and then, a mother.  Never the same. It takes a little getting used to.

And it’s okay. It’s all exactly as it should be.

But some of us aren’t quite ready for that change.

I wasn’t.

I remember thinking I had ruined my life. Thrown it away. I wished I could just go back to my old body and my old life and my old existence. My old state of being. Selfish? Yes. Immature? Yes. But real. And serious. And true.

So I mention it to my friends. To give them an out, a window of opportunity – a chance to say “holy fuck what did I sign up for? I’m dying here.”

And I’ll understand.

And that time I spent in silence and pain and despair can be put to some good use.

Because in the end, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not one single bit of it.

Plus, I had two more, so it can’t be that bad. In fact, it can be downright lovely. And that’s the real message.

Ha.

1. After attending the Hoes Down Festival at Full Belly Farm in the Capay Valley for a few years now, and feeling this strange peace out there every time I go, an indescribable comfort, I have determined that adult human beings belong on farms, working together to grow food, weave things and sew and talk, helping each other in this seemingly relentless process of waking, eating, sleeping and growing – and raising children. And those children, (why Mavis I just know it!) they belong out there too, eating dirt and climbing things and getting filthy and stopping in occasionally for food and possibly water, then leaving again, to run and play and use their hands and feet and bodies.
2. In other words, we do not belong in silos.
3. I wish we still lived in a world where every evening women would get together and quilt and sew and weave – because it’s nourishing and fun and social and humans need each other, apparently. No wonder we’re all so depressed – waking up in isolated homes with our isolated families going to isolated cubicles to make isolated checks to purchase isolation-promotion devices such as televisions and computers and video games (which ironically serve to make us feel less isolated).
4. Okay fine. That’s enough hippie-chatter outta me. But there really is something to getting back to the land and simplicity of entertainment, in sitting with others in casual conversation, knitting or whatever, letting your hands move in repetitive movements, making something. Doing something. Creating something. Sharing in just being people together.
5. Check it out. My son has learned more in 3 weeks of homeschool than he did in 1 year of “regular” school. We are finding a groove together and I feel so lucky to have the opportunity to be near him each day in this way.
6. My 13-month old has developed the most annoying sound in the world. I’m not kidding. There’s nothing like it. And of course no way to describe it. It’s her new way of registering discontent – it sounds something like a hyena and a fire siren mixed with the grunt of a very angry barn animal. When she does it I want to lock myself in a small closeted [soundproof] area, but I can’t, because if I leave her alone for more than 12 seconds she climbs something tall or finds some other way to creatively injure herself.
7.  This is why I can’t stand books like “What to Expect During the Toddler Years.” Undoubtedly (I don’t know because I haven’t read it) they would say something positive and supportive, like “while your budding little one tests her independence, she will go through exciting stages of curious exploration that you may find tedious – but hang in there! Before you know it, your little explorer will be sitting calmly doing her homework without you and you’ll miss those toddler days!”
8. What they really need to say is: “A great deal of the time, parenting a toddler fucking sucks, but you’re the one who decided to have the damn kid, so suck it up, dumbass. [And yes, it does end. And yes, you’ll then miss it. And no, it doesn’t seem like it now and NO, there is no explanation for this phenomenon.]”
9.  I have written way too much for this post so I’m ending it now. Kiss, hug, etc. and have a good week. Anybody want to start a knitting circle?
10. Did I really just say that?

When I’m not busy saving the world creating bumper stickers, I sometimes contemplate important philosophical questions, such as “Who’s more annoying, my cat or my kids?” It’s not immediately apparent, since they really are annoying in many of the same ways. For example, they both demand my attention, walk around whining, poop a lot, wake me up in the middle of night (often by jumping on my head), knock shit over, dart around the house recklessly, and require feeding and playing and cuddling.

But after careful consideration, I’ve discovered that my cat is indeed less annoying than my kids. Here’s why.

1. The cat poops in her litter box, as opposed to her diaper.
2. The cat cleans herself. Without arguing.
3. When the cat doesn’t like her dinner, she just walks away, as opposed to flailing on the ground exclaiming for 15 minutes that we never eat anything good and she’s just SOOOO starving she’s going to die.
4. When the cat knocks something over, she runs away startled rather than playing in the mess and blaming her brother.
5. I can chuck the cat off the bed in the middle of the night when she irritates me.
6. The cat will be entertained with a wadded up piece of paper for 12+ hours, unlike my kids, who have at least 75,000 toys but STILL can’t find ANYTHING to do.
7. I can punish the cat by squirting it in the head with water and not feel guilty about it.
8. The cat’s clothes are already on her and she doesn’t outgrow them, complain about them, need new ones or clean ones.
9. The cat sleeps in a ball at the foot of the bed, as opposed to horizontally across the mattress with her feet in my face.
10. The cat doesn’t talk.

AND, that brings us to the one I forgot: The cat can be left with a bowl of water, some food and a scratch post for many hours or even a day or two at a time, while I go on vacation. The last time I did that with one of my kids, I got in BIG trouble.

Which reminds me, dear friends who refer to their pets as “fur babies” or just “babies,” your cat is not your baby. Incidentally, neither is your dog.

Please stop saying that to people with actual kids. It just makes us jealous.

THE CAT IN QUESTION