What I learned this week…

1. Okay so I totally don’t remember this week. AGAIN. I do, however, remember yesterday, mostly because it was Mother’s Day. Ya see that? That’s what you call “on it.”
2. I had a wonderful day – spent it with a shitload of family members at my grandmother’s house. Plus, after years of explaining to my husband that on Mother’s Day he has to: 1.) be home; 2.) buy me something; and 3.) make me coffee – it appears he has finally figured it out. Go Mac.
3. I used to do this thing where I would not tell Mac what I wanted (though I would punish him greatly for not knowing) because I thought he should “just know” and that by telling him, I was somehow belittling the romance or sincerity of the act. Then I hit Stage 3 and realized it was never going to happen any other way, which means I would spend every holiday for the next fifty years pissed off and sad, and I realized that for some reason, the man doesn’t value notes on cards as much as his wife does — so I shared with him (GASP) that I like getting little notes and it means a lot to me, so please, do it. Fucker. And now, ELEVEN YEARS LATER, he writes me things like this on Mother’s Day: “You have made our house a home and have raised beautiful children. Thank you for being you. I love you, Mac.” And it feels very good, and sincere. Mostly. You know, enough.
4. I have a feeling #3 may deserve a blog post all of its own – that thing we do where we don’t tell partners what we need but destroy them when they don’t figure it out. Oh come ON. I am not the only one that does that.
5. Am I?
6.  Thank you for your nice comments on the Time Magazine post. I read that Time crap and had it rolling in my head for 2 whole days – over and over and over – through the night, in the shower, while driving – and I just didn’t know what I wanted to say, though I knew something had to be said. And then I just figured “well, something’s in there…” and I sat down and started writing. Fifteen minutes later that thing was written and I gotta say, I felt liberated and kind of empowered – it’s like my little motherhood manifesto. Your responses made my day. Truly. I don’t always respond to every comment (okay fine I pretty much never do), but please know that I read them and reread them and they mean a TON to me, and keep me writing. It is only a lack of time that keeps me from writing back religiously.
7. So today I was on campus with Rocket (long story) and we were outside. I was introducing him to a couple people I know. He mumbled “hello,” then almost immediately noticed a couple trees nearby with excellent climbing potential. In a flash, he was gone. Climbing the trees. I love it when they climb the trees. They never seem happier and healthier than when they are climbing trees.
8. Today Rocket was suffering from allergies and I attempted to console him by saying “Well, they’ll be gone soon.” To which he responded “yeah, we’ll get through this and then just enter the next state of irritation.”
9. How the hell did I raise such a little cynic? It must be his dad’s fault.
10. However, I couldn’t have said it better myself. “The next state of irritation.” Awesome.

Happy day-late Mother’s Day to the best mothers I know (well, cyber know – but still).

Okay I realize this picture is old, and Ava’s hand is cut off, but it’s one of my most favorite pictures EVER of the first two kids. And so, in honor of mother’s day, I’m putting it up. And then there’s a picture of Georgie in a bike helmet in a red tub, which also doesn’t suck.

Ava and Rocket in front of a redwood tree.

Safety First.

xo

Hey Time Magazine. Are you man enough?

Are you man enough to take it?

Can you take my motherhood?

Can you take my breastfeeding and baby-wearing and co-sleeping?

Can you take my bottles and strollers and cribs?

Can you comprehend my ambiguity?

Can you fathom my depths…

Can you breathe under the weight of my power?

As I dodge your attacks like a milky stealth fighter – as I stride along the battleground with cracked heels and giant breasts and a mouth whispering fuck you, and goodnight moon.

Are you man enough to know you have no place here?

Are you man enough to step aside?

You and your misogyny mean nothing to me. You and your sensationalism, your breastfeeder-gone-pedophile assault,  your  airstrike against us: mothers, all mothers, as you fuel fires for profit, to separate, diminish, annihilate.

Your violence is a buzz in my ear, a chuckle rolling off my tongue, a speck of dust in my eye, as I kiss the feet of the child I birthed in a tub in my living room.

under the knife in a sterile room.

on my back in a hospital with an epidural –

and dignity.

Are you man enough?

I know what you’re doing. I get it. You’ve lost your footing, in the face of these women you can’t control. These women who baffle you. These women who raise your children and fight your wars, pay your mortgage, lead your country and make you squirm.

Squirm.

It’s intimidating, isn’t it? Us.

You think if you divide us you’ll destroy us.

Ah, but you won’t.

We’ve taken it all already. Taken it all. Through immigration and migration and slavery and the suburbs. Through sickness through booze through death. Through oppression and suppression and depression. Through beating. Through black. Through light. Through loss. Through all.

We’re mothers.

Are you man enough to take it?

All of us?

Are you man enough to step aside?

Out of here. Out of this warmth – this red – this raging burn of love and hips and hands and milk – infinite chains of women you’ve never known. And will never know.

But I do.

We’re all here. All of us. Every form. Right here.

With nothin’ to prove.

Are you man enough to see it?

Are you man enough to let it go?

Because I can promise you one thing,

WE

are

mom

enough.

In our sleep, in our bones, in our weakness and in our strength – our many hues of the same undying strength – we’ve always been enough.

If extended breastfeeding causes dependency, why do my babies keep weaning themselves before they’re two?

No really. I wanna know. I keep gettin’ gypped.

It appears Georgia is moving on from the nursing relationship (at 21 months).

And the thing is…I want to nurse her more. I want to keep this going. But she’s only vaguely interested and gives me a passing glance and asks for “gook” (milk) occasionally and I offer repeatedly…but it’s becoming clearer and clearer that she’s pretty much, well, “over it,” as they say.

WHY? WHHHHHHYYYYYYYY? I’m not ready.

Today in the grocery store parking lot I saw a woman sitting in the backseat with the door open, nursing her baby who was probably about 8 months old. And as they do at that age, the little one was just intent on it – pulling her nourishment with vigor and interest and focus. My toddler? Half-assed nursing at best. Any little something – any little noise – any action in the room – boom. she’s done. Off the lap.

“I got things to do and people to see. I’m out.”

And she takes off to terrorize the house and squeal and climb shit.

It probably has something to do with the fact that she takes a bottle because I went back to work when she was 4 months, and often I’m not here when she goes to bed. So it’s my fault. Obviously. I know that. I accept that.

But it still makes me a little sad, this moving on. The new stage. Clearly it’s fine. And yes, I know 21 months is a good, solid time to nurse your baby.

But she just seems so little still, just a little thing stompin’ around and raisin’ hell. Just a little thing exploring the world, checking it out, venturing into life with strong and sure, but tiny, vulnerable, and innocent steps. She’s little. I can enfold her in my arms. I can pull her into a ball against my chest.

She still smells like a baby.

People. She smells like a baby.

swoon.

But I’ve vowed to trust her and me and the process, and if she’s done, she’s done. I get to let go. I get to feel the pang of detachment and watch her walk along, in her new independence.

There are times as a mother when I have to put my money where my mouth is. Do I really believe in child-led weaning? Do I really believe my kids will let me know when they’re ready to move on? Well…do I or not?

Cause a part of me wants to fight her on it…wants to keep it going…wants to force the issue (not that you can “force” a baby to nurse) – but you know, ignore her [rather obvious] dismissal, pretend she still wants it — NOT LET GO.

But it’s a selfish move. It’s for me.  I want it. She is clearly quite undisturbed by the whole thing.

But when it gets down to it, I know my job is to provide a foundation, not BE the foundation. I build a solid ground upon which she can grow, in whatever direction that takes. I don’t get to determine HOW she grows. I don’t get to mold her into what I think she should be. She already is.

She is already complete. Everything she needs is within her. I nourish what’s there. I do my best to create a setting in which she can thrive. Find herself. Find herself.

Not find me.

It’s my job to find myself, and keep looking for me when I can’t see me — and if I ever, EVER start looking for “me” in my kids – looking for “me” in another individual, well then, I know I’m looking in the wrong place, expecting a child to make me whole, placing on them a responsibility for my well-being – demanding of them, taking away their freedom, making my existence their problem.

And I won’t do that.

So go, little Georgia. Go on, baby one.

I’m here when you need me. In whatever form that takes.

And I sure loved it while it lasted.

there she is

xo

1. So the freeways lately have been featuring these giant electronic signs that say “Texting ticket, $159,” and then beneath that it says “Not worth it.” And every time I see that I’m like “oh, good, thanks for putting that last part in there because I wasn’t sure about the message you were trying to convey. I thought maybe you were trying to tell me what a good deal it is.” Dude wah?
2. Pretty much every time I’m walking into the gym I’m thinking “Damn I don’t feel like doing this,” but I have YET to walk out (after having actually exercised) and think to myself “Damn I wish I hadn’t done that.”
3. The gym is pretty cool that way.
4. You know, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Getting unfriended on Facebook would be a LOT MORE FUN if the person were required to give you a reason. Don’t you think?
5. I got unfriended by like 3 people this week. I think it was the homeschool post. Maybe? Oh I don’t fucking know (because FB is all obsessed with TIMELINES and shit and completely misses the boat when it comes to important things – like requiring a 1-sentence explanation of why you’re unfriending somebody. or maybe a questionnaire!). Of course, the fact that I have no idea WHO it is that unfriended me probably indicates that I’ll survive the whole ordeal (I just noticed the numbers). But really. That would be hysterical…”I unfriended you because you say “fuck” too much.” “I unfriended you because you’re too liberal.” “Your husband looks like this dude I used to know and I hated him.” or whatever.
6. Anyhoo, I would like to cordially invite the horrid scorching summer days to please come my way. I need the death of pollen. I need the plants to wither. I WANT TO RIP MY FACE OFF. Worst allergies I’ve ever had in my life. I say that every year, but I mean it this time.
7. Grad school is over this week. Then it’s summer. That’s some good stuff. Except that all 3 kids will be around ALL DAY LONG and I’ll have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide and it’ll be hot. But it’s summer. And it’s better than this springtime shit.
8. I’m 90% sure that we’ve sat down together as a family for an actual family meal about 4 times in the last 6 months. I don’t love that. I really don’t. I’m blaming it on baseball practice and games – as opposed to any deficiency on my part as a mother. Yes, let’s go with that.
9. Last night we went to a Black Keys concert in Sacramento. It was amazing. Hands down one of the 10 best shows I’ve ever seen in my life. Real rock and roll. A dying art.
10. Also, because I’m an amazing mother who makes sure her family eats together every night AND gets stimulating playtime, I made Georgie a white-trash water play table (pictured below). Yes, indeed it is a pan of water with a bunch of plastic and metal utensils placed on a rusty outdoor chair. No, nobody’s putting that shit on Pinterest. But OMGdoesSHELOVEIT. Precious.

Have a great week, all.

white-trash water table

at the concert. fun.

Alright. I’m gonna let something outta the bag. I hate homeschooling. No, rephrase: I hate homeschooling at this particular moment of my life with the particular arrangement I’m facing.

Allow me to paint a picture for you.

It’s 8am. I have just dropped older kid off for school. We are now home. I have managed to feed the kids, get them dressed, have a cup of coffee and we are ready to start homeschooling. I excitedly tell Rocket “Okay, it’s school time!” There’s so much enthusiasm in my voice I make myself nauseous. But I want him to feel excited. He looks at me with disdain and BEGS me not to make him. He whines. I tell him “We’re gonna have fun!” His body contorts into a position that speaks his mind “I’d rather die than do homeschool with you, woman.”

“ROCKET. NOW.”

He reluctanctly rises. We go into the homeschool room. He’s dragging his toys. I make him leave his toys. He puts them down and kicks them. They knock something over. I get annoyed. Georgia is stomping with her standard frightening determination.

Georgia goes straight to the work table, climbs up the only chair Rocket will use and begins chucking things off the table. I move her, try to entertain her with one of the SEVENTY-FIVE FUCKING THOUSAND other toys in the room. She has no interest in them. That’s because she’s 20 months old. She must be with us. Near us. ON US. I know today is going to be like every other homeschool day – HELL.

We sit down. He rolls his eyes. We get the books out. We work on our letters. Every step, every activity, every moment feels like dragging a loaded wheelbarrow through knee-deep mud in the pouring rain. He resists everything. The only thing he wants to do is science projects. We can only work in 5-minute intervals because he can’t focus longer than that on shit he doesn’t care about (if one of you tells me he has ADD I will in fact HUNT YOU DOWN).

And while he’s resisting, while he’s ignoring and flailing and daydreaming and fidgeting and selectively listening and zoning out…Georgia is going batshit crazy. She’s climbing up my lap and tearing things off the table. She’s scaling his chair. She’s biting his knee. She’s pulling the trash can on her head. She’s drawing on the dollhouse with permanent marker. And if I divert her? She’s screaming.

So I have this kid who would rather stab himself in the eye than do schoolwork and this toddler who would rather stab him in the eye too, and neither of them are budging and the moments are crawling and we’re making no progress and my patience is waning and I’m trying to keep a 6-year old engaged and a toddler away from him and not dead and I am failing on every front and putting out fires as they come. and BOOM! One minute I blow. I can’t fucking take it.

I walk out to breathe. I walk out to gather myself lest I run full-speed out of this damn house FOREVER and quite possibly, into oncoming traffic. But we’ve only got two hours because in two hours I have to leave for class or work and I’ve got papers to write and classes to prepare for or maybe a conference call and oh yeah, a shower to take. OMG it never ends. I have to do this. I don’t have time to do this. I don’t have TIME TO DO THIS.

And yet, I must do this. I committed to do this.

I think I made a mistake.

I’m not cut out for this homeschool thing. I think that’s the truth. I think I could do it if I weren’t in grad school and working, if I could do it in the afternoons when Georgia naps – if homeschool/home-making is all I did.

I feel like I failed my son. Like I made him a promise and broke it. Like I thought I could serve him well as his teacher but I just could not. And now I’ve wasted his time and mine and my heart is breaking, as usual, with that feeling of remorse for letting time pass and not quite cuttin’ it.

It’s breaking because I already miss it. And yet my GOD I won’t. We only have a couple months left. He’ll be going to regular school in the Fall. And I KNOW that as I drop him off each morning I will miss him, miss him hanging out, missing him by my side. Miss him.

But there is this thing I try to live by called “honesty” and sometimes it requires facing some facts about yourself. What I’m facing now is that I’m not a good homeschool mother.

In the interest of honesty, though, I gotta admit, there is one area I haven’t failed in. And that area is fun. We’ve gone to 10 plays together. We get discounted tickets through his charter school, and we haven’t missed one.

And so we’ve gone together, just he and I. And he sits on my lap through the whole thing and we watch theater and we laugh and I kiss his head and ruffle his unruly curls.

And I love the time I’ve had with my son. And I’ll never regret it. And someday I’ll accept that old saying, that old truth that feels like a copout until it fully sinks in, the honesty of it, the truth of it…that I did the best I could.

And maybe, inside, deep in his little soul, he knows it.

And he’ll remember moments like these…

xo