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.

1. On Tuesday night, Rocket dislocated Georgia’s elbow by “helping” her do a “handstand.” Thankfully the doctor just popped it back in but ohmygod the crying and agony she went through. How do people hurt children? I cannot understand it.
2. An hour into it I felt drained and exhausted and paralyzed with powerlessness and I would have done ANYTHING to stop that little one from hurting. I just don’t get how a person could inflict suffering on a kid, purposely. Repeatedly. Do they not feel the misery I did? And if they do, how the hell do they live with themselves?
3. On a happier note, on Wednesday I turned 33 and my family threw me a little surprise party. My brother and his family drove 2 hours to be there. A couple of my closest friends were there. I was struck by the love.
4. On Wednesday night Georgia got sick AGAIN and has had a fever for FOUR FUCKING DAYS. We’re taking her to the same urgent care we were at on Tuesday. They’re gonna call CPS.
5. Yesterday I spent 14 (that’s right. FOURTEEN) hours grading midterm essay exams. As long as I live I will never use the words “therefore,” “clearly,” or “significant” again.
6. Clearly, I’m full of shit.
7. Speaking of “full of shit,” I’m really serious that we need a sarcasm font. Let’s all agree on one (and by “all” I mean “humanity”). That way the fucktards who read my writing and get their panties all knotted up thinking I’m serious will have access to that fun little thing we call “a sense of humor.”
8. Have you ever noticed that people who don’t have kids are by far the most judgmental of those of us who do? I think that’s weird. I mean when I haven’t done something I realize I haven’t done that thing. WOW. Deep. And therefore, my opinion arises out of speculation, not experience, and as such, it doesn’t hold much weight. Though I may share it with my friends when nobody’s looking, I SURE AS HELL wouldn’t bestow my uninformed opinion upon somebody who has actually done the thing in question. [mostly for fear of looking like an ass.] That would be like me telling a person how to raise twins, or Mac how to be an ironworker…”Honey, you’re holding your welder incorrectly…” (is it actually called a “welder?”) or him telling me how to have a baby “oh sweetheart, you’re pushing all wrong. Let me tell ya how it’s done.” Insane I say. Insane.
9. Damnit. Also used “therefore.”
10. So if my baby doesn’t get better in the next 5 hours I’m going to turn myself into CPS for some sort of vacation. (that was sarcastic.)

By the way, I just gotta tell you readers that I think you’re amazing. I’m serious. I write a post and then I get these freaking incredible comments that say it better than I did. And then, when some psycho comments, we all rally around and cyber-kick their ass.

We are BFFs. We are. Can’t be helped.

Check out the pillow Ava made me for my birthday. It’s a “sleeping” pillow that you hang from the door. One side says “Welcome,” the other side says this:

The kid gets me.

Have a great week, everybody.