There’s something I forgot to include in my “shit I don’t understand” post: Facebook/Twitter drama. I just don’t get it. My reactions to people’s posts are pretty much all just slight variations of the following five thoughts:

• That was clever;
• That was not clever;
• Your kid is cute;
• I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole;
• Yawn.

I don’t see what there is to get all worked up about. If somebody irritates me repeatedly, I hide them. If they offend me repeatedly, I delete them. VIOLA. Problem solved. No drama.

Anyway, let’s talk about what’s on my mind…

1. Parents should not expect to have an undisturbed night’s sleep or go to bed in peace for at least 9 years, and that’s if they only have one kid. Because yes, at some point they stop waking up all night for feeding, but they have a whole slew of other tactics up their sleeves to obliterate nighttime tranquility.
2. For example, Rocket has now decided he’s “scared” every night. He weeps. He moans. He cajoles. He already sleeps permanently on our floor, but somehow, now, for reasons yet undisclosed, he needs lights on and people around and if we aren’t physically present in the same room, he weeps in heartbreaking desperation, even though he can hear us bustling about in the rest of the house. It’s so unfair.
3. When I clean my house all weekend, I get in a pretty bad mood by the end.
4. I cleaned my house all weekend. I’m in a pretty bad mood.
5. I’m trying to prepare for this back-to-school nonsense. Clothes, supplies, meetings, logistical arrangements…realizing the nonsense is amplified greatly and vastly more intimidating when I am the school.
6. We went to the state fair. It was a state fair – I don’t know what else to say. The carnies scared me to the point I wouldn’t let my kids walk within 5 feet of them. It stunk. It was hot. They sold fried butter. No really, they sold fried butter.
7. Mac sent me a text yesterday that said “You are the best wife since before they invented wives.” I’m so easy. I’m so simple. If you want a marriage to work with me, send me random unexpected silly sweet texts. I’m putty in your hands.
8. I have thirteen books sitting on my bedside table. THIRTEEN. I start a book, I read some, I stop. I leave it there. I get a new book off the shelf; I read it for awhile. I get bored. I go back to the first one. And on and on and on. Rarely do I pick up a book and read the entire thing uninterrupted. I don’t know why I do that. It’s like literary ADD. Or something.
9. I may write a blog post listing the books that are sitting on my bedside table. But I’ll have to get to know you all better. That’s a real glimpse into somebody’s soul, don’t you think? 🙂 Especially if the book is something like “How to love yourself and nurture your inner child.”

That was a joke. I wouldn’t read a book like that. If I read a book like that, I would vomit on myself almost immediately, because that kinda super touchy-feely stuff makes me gag, and nobody likes vomiting right before bed.

Cheers, everybody, have a good week.

So yesterday I went out with the three kids. Mac was working (shocker), and I was feeling ambitious and altruistic, figuring “I can handle this. I’m a good mom.” Plus, if I’m OUT of my house I don’t have to deal with the mess IN my house.

I know. I’m a thinker.

So we went to breakfast. Then we went to a craft store to pick out fabric for curtains I’ll never actually sew, and we walked around the 2^nd-hand baby store (where I bitched about the prices, realizing I can buy the same shit for cheaper at Old Navy and it’s NEW)…then we went to a couple other stores, then Costco.

And really the little hoodlums were pretty good. I mean they’re kids, so they can’t be THAT good, but for kids, they were alright.

But by the end of our outing I realized something: My kids never stop talking. They never, ever, ever fucking EVER stop talking.

“Mama, do you think it’s weird when girls talk about boys they like?”

“Mama, why are we going this way? Can’t we walk to the next store? Why can’t we walk? I wanna walk. We never walk ANYWHERE. Why do we never walk anywhere?”

“Mama, can we buy this wooden chest of drawers for my doll clothes?”

“Mama, I love it when I fart in my underwear.”

“Mama, Georgia has a booger.”

“Mama, you never buy us anything.”

“Mama, how do the police tell the bad guys from the good guys?”

“Mama, how did the Russian Revolution start?” (Yes, Ava actually asked that.)

“Mama, how come Hitler used gas on the Jews when  all the countries signed that agreement after World War I promising never to use gas again during war?” (and that too.)

“Mama, will I ever grow up as tall as daddy? How tall is daddy? Is he taller than an elephant? I want to be taller than an elephant. A crane is taller than an elephant. But what about a giraffe? Is daddy taller than a giraffe? A crane is taller than a giraffe for sure. Pretty much everything isn’t as tall as a crane. Right, mama? Is a crane taller than everything?”

And ON and ON and ON and ON.

And on.

And on.

And on.

Please give me a break. One break. Two minutes of silence.

Holy fuck do they EVER stop talking?

No. They don’t. They are relentless. I don’t think they breathe. They only talk.

When I’m with all three of them, there is always one of them making noise in my direction, needing me. Always.

Whether it’s whining or crying or wailing or squealing or talking…there’s always noise coming at me from the little people.

My husband can sit there and, by all appearances, not hear a single smidgen of it.

I on the other hand hear every single speck of chatter and feel compelled to answer each and every question they pose. [Unless it has to do with farts or poop or underwear. Most of those questions I let go unanswered, realizing the purpose is usually just to say the word “fart” or “poop” or “underwear” – any response being almost wholly irrelevant.]

I do okay at the beginning. But after a few hours…my Lord I’m tired of people talking at me. I’m an extrovert and all, but shit. Everybody’s got a limit.

And then I start giving one word answers and my daughter starts picking up on my impatience and I start feeling guilty so I try again but my heart’s not in it but they don’t stop because they actually physically cannot (by the way, is that some sort of ailment?)…so we just go on like that…forever….it’s all really quite a lovely little picture.

So I turn on music. Loud.

But they talk anyway. OVER THE MUSIC.

Sometimes I pretend I can’t hear them.

But they only TALK LOUDER.

Deep breaths. Mantras. “I am a rock in a stream.”

Yeah right. That shit never works.

I tried telling them once about the Dalia Lama stating that “senseless chatter” was a bad thing, clouding the mind and separating us from our Buddha nature. While it appeared promising at first, that particular strategy backfired miserably when they started accusing me of “doing senseless chatter” almost every time I brought up a subject they didn’t feel like hearing.

Oh well.

I know I’ll miss this in 20 years.

OR WILL I?

The only time I get any peace from the NOISE. Except wait a minute. Ava is not in this picture, which means she was probably with me. Talking. Talking to me. Talking to me endlessly. Shiiiiit.

I am not one of those parents. I am not not not not not not.

 Convinced?

 Yeah, me neither.

 Especially when I consider my recent decision to homeschool my son, Rocket.

 I’m so granola I should be in a bin at Whole Foods.

Next thing you know I’ll be growing armpit hair and knitting a hemp beanie for my kid, Moondance.

Or, maybe you’re thinking I’ve been BORN AGAIN. I’ve gone so religious I suddenly realize I’ve been “called” to shelter my children from the devious fingers of the DEVIL – protect them from the unrighteous (you know, gays, drugees, drunks, atheists, agnostics, Muslims…[fill in the blank]) – um, yeah fucking right. That definitely isn’t it. I’d choose the deviant outliers over the judgmental born-agains any day of the week.

I have decided to homeschool Rocket because regular school was totally and completely not working. Check it out: he’s almost 6 years old and he can’t read. Doesn’t want to read. Has no interest in reading. This may be because he’s dyslexic, which wouldn’t shock any of us, considering he has a genetic disposition for it and has shown other symptoms, OR he just, um, has no interest in reading yet.

Either way, teachers are obsessed with kids LEARNING TO READ. Must LEARN TO READ. Must learn to read NOW. Must learn to read NOW or something is WRONG with you.

And Rocket is not learning to read.

And he is not an idiot. He knows the other kids are learning to read.

And he is sensitive.

Remember The Seal Incident? Yeah, the kid feels it when he can’t perform. He feels it when he’s let others down, acted poorly, failed to meet expectations.

The result of this scenario? My little guy comes home from school nearly every day with a migraine headache. Nearly.Every.Single.Day. Five years old. Wracked with anxiety.

Yeah, no thanks.

I opt out.

Unsubscribe.

Please remove me from your mailing list.

Thank you for your time, traditional schooling, but we’ll be pursuing other options now.

We considered Waldorf or Montessori – too expensive. We considered sending him to regular school and just hoping he’d handle it one way or another, but there’s a problem with that approach, namely that every day, Rocket walks away with one message: “I’m not good enough. I’m not as smart as the other kids… What is wrong with me?” And I’m pretty sure that message will play over and over and over until finally he gets tired of the sound of that noise, gets tired of the feelings it triggers…tired of the whole thing…fed the hell up…and then the tape will probably play a new tune, maybe going something like this: “Screw school. I hate it. What I want is the HELL OUTTA HERE as soon as humanly possible and until that’s possible, I’ll just sit here and mess with the other kids, sniff glue, and/or work on my Early Expulsion Strategic Plan.”

So there you have it. I’m quitting work, returning to grad school and homeschooling my son.

That’s it. That’s all I got. My shit’s spilled.

Good lord I am not the homeschool type. But what the hell am I supposed to do? I’m no genius, but shit, even I can see that some things just aren’t working.

This was not, ever, in my plan. From my perspective, the payoff for the toddler years is that when they’re over, you get to send the kid to school all day – in another building – bye bye. But this was clear. I had to reassess.

I’m just trying to do what’s best for my little guy. Trying to find something that works.

And relying heavily on the fact that it’s kindergarten. I mean shit, how hard can it be?

I remember kindergarten. We cut out shapes and laughed at the kids who wet themselves. Oh wait. Maybe that was my first year in the dorms. Whatever.

We’ll survive.

Goodbye employment. Hello homeless encampment.

Okay so we probably won’t end up homeless, but yesterday I quit my job. I QUIT MY JOB. On purpose. I quit my job on purpose.

Sorry. It still shocks me a little.

Why did I do such a thing?

Because I’m returning to graduate school.

Because I can’t return to graduate school and work and see my kids (at all, ever, even a little).

Because I’m effing INSANE.

I mean who does that? Abandons security, comfort, regular income to pursue a degree in English Literature, a virtually useless degree, a degree that promises no particular job at all – and if it results in ANY job it will surely be a low-paying one?

Who.does.that?

Well, I do. I guess.

But I had no choice. I stood at a crossroads. I kept writing posts like this one and this one, registering discontent and a feeling of lack – a sense of being unfulfilled. Something had to change. Something wasn’t right.

You know how sometimes you go through life and there’s this quiet suspicion in the back of your mind that maybe you should do something else? Like a low hum it buzzes constantly “Maybe you should go back to school, Janelle. Maybe you should quit work…” but it remains just an annoyance…background noise…until all the sudden it surfaces completely…rings like a crisp clear bell and YOU KNOW. You know what to do. Suddenly the path materializes in front of you and you just know “Oh. Right. I need to go this way now.”

Maybe I am insane. Maybe I am.

But despite my best efforts to come at it from a new angle, rework it, reinterpret it, it became undeniable that it was time for a change. The path had materialized and I just couldn’t go anywhere else. I tried to rig it – figure out how to do both work and school, but I found that was impossible. There are not enough hours. Something had to give.

It got down to a simple question: do I stay where it’s safe or risk everything to pursue what I love?

We chose to risk everything. And I say “we” because my husband – my heart, my rock, my truest and best friend (and staunchest supporter) – has told me in no uncertain terms that he’ll work 3 jobs to keep us alive, while I sit in a classroom discussing postcolonial theory with a bunch of skeptical sleep-deprived grad students.

I often feel that the universe gave me a kiss on the head when it sent me Mac. It’s like it said “Hey, you. Take this. Have this gift. You’ll be fine.”

And with him by my side, we will be fine.

[Wait. Hold on. I’m still a little flushed from that whole postcolonial theory thing. It’s so hot I’m struggling a little to find my words.]

Whew. That’s better.

Anyway, to answer your questions: No, we really can’t afford for me not to work. No, we don’t have a back-up plan. Yes, we may end up under a bridge.

But whatever, bridges are cool.

“Leap, and the net will appear.”

I’m learning to trust. I’m learning to be okay with the uncertainty. Sometimes you just have to LIVE, and worry about it later.

Right. I’m brave. I’m not scared. I laugh in the face of worry. I am a fearless spirit, trudging my way along the path of destiny.

[Oh shit. Did I really do this? Hold me.]

1. Just returned from camping in Lake Tahoe. Apparently, I will not, ever, learn.
2. We have some great friends. Great ones. Some of these friends came camping with us. This fact made #1 more okay than one would expect. However, it was still about as relaxing as, oh, whatever, I don’t know…something not relaxing – and I currently, once again, need a vacation from our “vacation.”
3. I’m not sure, but I THINK that if I were a millionaire I would probably never, ever camp again. [Why do I say these things out loud? WHY?] I would rent one of those 2,000 square feet “cabins” and just hang out outside, as if we were camping.
4. Okay FINE. We’d probably still camp, but not as often. For SURE not as often.
5. I love Lake Tahoe in the summer. I just freaking love it. I love the trees and the clear blue water and the snow-peaked mountains and the way the sun burns you more readily cause of the altitude and the mountain towns and the rocks. I love all of it.
6. Well maybe not all of it. I don’t love the way everybody drives on ONE ROAD around the lake, often after consuming seventeen beers on the beach, all of it causing extreme traffic fun. I don’t love the drunk 12-year-olds. Okay maybe they’re slightly older, but they look 12, so whatever. I don’t cherish drum-circling hippies in small campgrounds who play until 3am. Not very “love the one your with,” bro.
7. Toby Keith really should take it down a notch. I mean is a “boot in your ass” really the American way? Sounds a little extreme in my opinion. Besides, we more prefer bombing people than kicking. Don’t we?
8. Speaking of Toby Keith, I would like to know how the hell he got on my Ipod.
9. I’m afraid of 5^th grade girls. I learned this when I saw the 5^th-grade girls in my daughter’s class (she’s in a 4^th/5^th split class next year). They look kinda like real preteen girls. They bounce around almost like actual teen girls. They look about 10 years more “mature” than my daughter and I don’t like it. Stay where you are, Ava. Stay.
10. I’m on the brink of a lot of changes. I’m going to tell you all about them this week. There’s a lot going on, my friends. The Zen proverb “Leap, and the net will appear” keeps coming to mind.
11. There’s a reason I’m not a Zen master: because I’m leaping, but I’m fucking afraid and I often convince myself in no uncertain terms that there is no net and there never will be a net and we’re going to end up in a pile at the bottom of a ravine, after jumping like idiots from our position of safety. Really, quite terrified. I’m “trusting” that the net will appear only because the alternative – of staying where I am – is impossible. Impossible.

I realize I’m being cryptic and annoyingly vague. Sorry – I’ll spill it soon – first Spill Post tomorrow. Have a great week, all.