In a fact that strikes me as remarkable, I actually wrote this post a few days before my brother-in-law was killed in a car accident (two weeks ago). For some reason, I didn’t publish it, but for [probably] obvious reasons, I cannot help but publish it now.

Maybe some part of me knew the universe wasn’t done with what it had to say…

*******

When the universe smashes me across the face, repeatedly, with the same damn message, I do my best to engage, wake up a little, rather than ignore or deny it, or pull into some cave, because I’m too scared to face it.

And recently, the universe has pummeled me with the reality of death and loss – the transitory nature of all things, people, life. In a rather compassionate gesture, these messages have been just distant enough that I am not profoundly affected. But I am affected. And I feel compelled to write a few things.

The wife of a friend of mine went to see the doctor about a backache. They did an MRI and found cancer had taken over her body. She was a Pilates instructor in her early 50s. She passed away 17 days later.

The daughter of a best friend of my mom’s died from childbirth complications 24 hours after giving birth to a full-term, healthy baby girl.

A friend of mine is waiting for her unborn baby to pass away. There is nothing they can do.

A woman I used to work with – just facing retirement – died two months after finding out she had cancer.

There is more. But I won’t go on.

The reality of each these events has come into my world within one month. And as each one of them hit me, cut through to my core in rapid succession, I felt a strange feeling I can only describe as the following question: “Janelle, there are people dying suddenly and losing children, and you’re writing about baby sprinkles and ranting about childless know-it-alls. What the hell is wrong with you?”

And something didn’t feel right, and I felt compelled to write this post.

No, I don’t feel the need to defend myself, or this blog, neither its frivolity nor its sarcasm nor its ridiculousness. The truth is I don’t think life should be taken so damn seriously. I just don’t. And I don’t feel guilty about having fun, being as honest and real as I can, and having one helluva time making fun of women who say “baby sprinkle.”

But there’s something I want you all to know, and I’m not sure exactly why, but it has continued popping into my brain, which means I need to write it. When something nags me to be written, I make it a rule to always respond, no matter how much I fear the consequences.

And what I need to say is this: resting beneath my seething pessimism, sharp tongue, goofy flippancy and irrational judgments lies a well of a profound gratefulness – for the kids I whine about, the husband I bitch about, the very life I ridicule.

You see, I am a sober alcoholic. I have alluded to this in the past, but I’ve never said it directly.

I was a daily drinker by the time I was eighteen years old. Over the years, as my alcoholism progressed, I found myself less and less able to maintain the “act” of normalcy that held together the tenuous strands of my life, and in 2007, I became an essentially absent member of my children’s lives. I did not return to them fully until 2009.

Over the years, as I sunk deeper into a pit of alcoholic hopelessness, each morning swearing on my life I wasn’t going to drink again, only to find myself with the bottle that very evening, failing my children, failing myself, failing all, living a life strangled in lies, I began seeking a solution. I tried therapy, gyms, alternative health care, psychiatry, medication. I moved away. I moved back. I left my husband. I returned. I tried churches and spiritual retreats. I went to rehab five times.

But in March of 2009, something happened. I arose one more morning in the black haze of the paralyzing remorse that had become like air to me. But this time, somehow, for some reason, I was able to take a real look at my life and see it for exactly what it was. And I saw myself for what I was. I saw it all, and for the first time there was nothing left to blame (it was all gone) – and the reality of my existence planted fearlessly in the forefront of my mind: I was a failure in this life and I would die a slave to alcohol. I could not keep a job, a home, a friend. I was no mother.

And for the first time in my life I just wanted to be free. I no longer cared what was “wrong” with me. I simply wanted to wake up just one single day and know where I would end up that evening, know I would be there for my children, show up for my life, become a real human living a real life on this planet.

With every fiber of my being, I wanted to live.

I wanted to be free.

I now know that I had hit what some call the alcoholic’s “bottom.”

I had surrendered.

And because I was ready, some teachers came into my life who were able to show me how to live as a sober individual, and I have not taken a drink of alcohol (or any other mind-altering substance) since March 5th of 2009.

And so you see now, I stand in awe of my life. And that’s what I want you to know. I may bitch, and I may whine, and I may talk some serious shit, but if you were to scratch the surface of my complaining, you would find a woman with an exploding heart and tears pouring from her eyes – you would find an ocean of the deepest gratitude – because that woman is living. Because she is there.

And there was a time – many years in fact – when she was neither.

And that is who I really am. That is the other side. The rest, well, is for fun. In fact, had I not such a profound respect for my life, for these kids and this home and my job and motherhood and ALL the mayhem that entails – I doubt I could write this blog with such silliness, such sarcasm. You know, because I have nothing to prove. Nothing to gain. I already have it all. So why not laugh?

I have not kept this whole story to myself because I am ashamed. I am not hiding nor am I afraid. Rather it is because I spent my entire life acting like some victim, playing the role of the wounded puppy, so lost in self-centeredness I didn’t even see the destruction I caused – immature, narcissistic, feeling like the world owed me something…and so, I hesitated to say anything because I’m not interested in begging for attention or special recognition, or congratulating myself on doing the things I should have been doing my whole life, for growing the fuck up, taking on the responsibilities that were always mine. I am not special. I’m just a person with alcoholism.

And one day, I wanted to live more than I wanted to die.

But now, I guess, is the time that whole story needed to be told, cause I started feeling like I was hiding. And I try not to live that way, anymore.

My experience with daily life, beyond the wild sarcasm and smart-ass attitude I share with you, can be summed up in the following story.

As you know, a couple months ago, I dressed up in 1850s garb to participate in a field trip with Ava’s school. Before going to the field trip location, I had to drop Ava off at school. I sat there in my bonnet and giant cotton dress, roasting in 80 degree heat, and watched my daughter hop out of the car. I said “I’ll see you soon, baby, have fun!” And when she got a few feet from the car she looked back at me and smiled. And my eyes welled, and then they simply poured, because in her smile was a knowing, a trust, a security. It was a simple awareness that her mother was going to be there. For her. Today. There was no doubt in her mind. It was a carefree smile, a joyful smile of a child, a passing nod of a girl to her mother.

And I just could not believe it. Once again, I could not believe I have been given this second chance, to be here, now. To dress in these goofy clothes. To volunteer at my child’s field trip.

To be a mother to this girl, who isn’t doubting and isn’t scared, who knows…”she’ll be there.”

And in those moments what washes over me is a grace and light I cannot find the words to explain. It’s as if I’m living a miracle, so precious are those “nothing” moments of life, which I spend so much time joking about on this blog. Sometimes I feel I’ve pulled some giant cosmic joke on the world — sitting there at a Little League game — like it’s nothin’ – when inside, I’m bursting a little, in joyful disbelief that I could ever, EVER, be so damn lucky. To be sitting there, with a clear mind and clear heart, on the bleachers at a Little League game.

I guess that’s all I wanted you to know.

Yeah, that’s it.

I’ve always tried to keep it real on this blog, and this, my friends, is as real as it gets…

freedom

1. I know, I know. It’s Saturday. And I write my weekly posts on SUNDAY! Sunday! But this week, I’m livin’ on the edge. For two reasons: 1. I enjoy livin’ on the edge; 2. That stupid cast thing was removed from my hand, which means I can type. So I’m typing. Because I can.
2. Speaking of typing, I would just like to extend a big thanks to Facebook for adding that special little “edited” feature. Now, thanks to you, everybody can see when I edited a three word comment because I’m lame, and can’t write three words correctly. Cheers.
3. And, since we’re on the topic of lame…I fucking hate Walmart. Not on principle (though I’m near that as well), but in reality. I go there and I feel my soul sort of shrink out of my body. This evening I left a near-full cart at the check-out stand because the lines were hideously long and I couldn’t take it for ONE MORE MINUTE. The fluorescent lights and video advertisements and plastic items crafted in China by exploited children – the “roll-back” prices on a bunch of shit nobody needs. I’m serious. I hate that place.
4. So why was I there? Because it’s the only freaking store in the town I live in. DON’T GET ME STARTED PLEASE.
5. Yesterday, against my better judgment, we went to the state fair. Actually, I’m just kidding. The truth is we had a surprisingly great time. HOWEVER, I broke a vow I made as a very young girl, after puking all over myself and wanting to die: I went on the spinning tea-cup ride (well, in this case, it was strawberries, but you get it). You know the one? Yeah, that one. The one that spins. The one that spins and spins and spins and you can make it spin some more by turning that wheel in the center.
6. But I had no choice. You see, my heartbreakingly adorable niece, Lucy, walked up to me with her blond locks and startlingly large blue eyes, in her polka dot dress and rosebud mouth, and said “Auntie Janelle, I want to go on the Strawberry ride and I want you to go with me!” In my head I was saying “Um, I can’t. That ride makes me want to die.” But what came out of my mouth was “Okay, honey! I’d love to!” And then I believe she hopped and grabbed my hand, which obviously sealed the deal. We waited in line. I watched it spin. I held her hand. The terror sunk in. Fucking strawberries. I thought to myself “well, we’ll just sit in our own strawberry and I won’t spin the thing, so it won’t be that bad.”
7. But alas, just as the tweaker carnie was about to shut us in the strawberry of death, a dad yelled out to me “Can my girls ride with you?” He obviously wanted them to ride with somebody safe, and, since he didn’t know me, he figured I was the gal for the job. I said “of course.” But in my head I was like “No way, dude. Get your own damn strawberry.”
8. So they get in and the ride starts and they start spinning the shit outta that thing. I tried stopping them for a minute but they slaughtered me with their eyes and pig-tails, and since I was outnumbered and now responsible for the strawberry-ride-enjoyment of THREE little girls, I said “what the hell” and I started spinning it for them, twirling that damn thing like a bat out of hell (do bats twirl or am I mixing metaphors?). Anyhoo, the loved it, and yes, yes I did. I did want to die. I was sick for two hours after that. But Lucy. You haven’t SEEN her. It was worth it for Lucy. Next time though? I’m totally saying “no.”
9. The other day at work I had like nine missed calls from the nanny’s cell phone. This clued me in immediately to the fact that it was one of the kids, since she’ll just text me if I don’t answer. It rang again. I answered it, kind of irritated. It was Rocket. I was like “Rocket, what is it? You know I’m working. You can’t call me fifty times a minute when I’m working.” And I had irritation in my voice.
10. And then, the little guy says, I shit you not: “Mama, I just called to tell you I love you.”

And THAT, my friends, is how they get us to go on the fucking strawberry spin ride.

Because they are wonderful.

However, I THINK they may also do that to keep us in a state of perpetual guilt. You know, for being assholes.

Which lends even more weight to their ability to get us on spinning rides.

All I know is, it’s all their fault.

And I love it.

By the way, is it just me, or is this kid damn cute?

Rocket and his cousin went on this ride…don’t tell ’em it was the kiddie version…

And Georgie and I went on the merry-go-round. MORE SPINNING. But she loved it. She was like “More! More! MORE HORSEY!” But I stood my ground. You know, because I’m tough like that.

xo

So that whole Push Present post, along with the brilliant comment by Stephanie over at Momma Be Thy Name (if you aren’t reading her, you should), got me thinking about “playdate calling cards.” So of course, like any sane human, I Googled that shit. I know, I’m a thinker.

I found out all sorts of interesting things. Not really. To be honest, it’s a rather insipid topic (which fully explains why I’m writing about it, right?).

I pretty much only learned that they go by multiple names: “mommy calling cards,” “mommy playdate cards,” and, for those into the whole brevity thing, “mommy cards.”

First of all, don’t call me “mommy.” I thought we’ve been over this.

Secondly, do these things exist because it’s too difficult to put somebody’s number in your fucking cell phone? Or is it just to be cute, even, perhaps, what I might call Excessively Cute? and you know how I feel about The Excessively Cute.

These are deep questions. Can’t be answered at one sitting.

However, while contemplating this inane topic, I realized that I could perhaps get behind the whole “mommy card” thing, were they not called “mommy cards,” not quite so damn cute, and didn’t imply that my ENTIRE IDENTITY can be conveyed by the words “mommy to Ava, Rocket and Georgia!”

So basically I pretty much can’t get behind them. Or I could, if they were recast into some totally inappropriate, renegade version, you know, something we might call “Cards to weed out the women who wouldn’t want to hang out with me or my offspring anyway.”

Not particularly catchy.

But alas, all the “mommy cards” I saw said variations of the aforementioned statement “mommy to ____” followed up with contact information. Some of them said “Let’s have a playdate!” at the top.

Now these simply will not work for me, so I figured I’d make a few that would.

I could hand these to women who chat with me at the park, seeing the in-public, well-behaved (more or less), not-saying-“fuck” version of me. [I try not to say the F word around other people’s children. Or my own, though that’s always a bit sketchy. Let’s change the subject.] And then, they would have fair warning that I am THAT type of mother with THOSE types of children…and then, she can run.

FYI, I don’t drink anymore, on account of the last one being TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY THE WAY I USED TO ROLL.

Sorry for the all caps. It’s a disease.

You know, now that I really think about it, I think I really, really like the idea of these things.

They are just so damn versatile. Don’t you think?

But seriously. Stop calling me “mommy.”

xo

Normally I don’t write my weekly Sunday post because I’m disorganized and insane and can’t pull it together. This week, however, I haven’t written because I don’t want to tell you about my week. Not because I don’t want to share – because we ALL know I’m a hopeless over-sharer – but rather, because for once, I’m without words. Well, almost without words.

I write when I have something to say. I write because something rolls in my head, around and around, until it ends somewhere. And when it ends, I know what I need to say. Even with those silly weekly posts, I know what I want to say.

But I don’t know what to say now. I’ve got no “message,” no “take away.” Not much of anything at all.

On Wednesday, a dear friend – one of those family members who aren’t family members – died in a car accident. To my children, he was a beloved uncle. To my husband, he was a best friend. To me, well, he was a man I knew well and cared about deeply for the last 11 years – revered highly – and absolutely adored for what he was in the lives of my in-laws and husband and children. The way he loved them. The way they loved him.

He was the one who never missed a birthday party, a family celebration, a barbeque. He was the one who never said “no I can’t help.” He was just.always.there.

Until now. Now he is gone.

His heart, it was huge. I see that heart right now. I miss who he was. Just him.

And so I’ve spent the week grieving with my children, watching them walk through this with the miraculous grace only a child possesses – so in the moment, so bravely, so unaffected and free. They play, eat, sleep, walk. And then they remember, cry, fold into each other’s arms, talk, remember. And then, they play again.

But I, I’m a little more stuck in my brain — I’ve got a story about it. I replay it and wonder why. I replay it and I want it to be different. I replay it and I my heart breaks for him, for being gone like this, and his daughter, and my in-laws and my husband and my kids, who have faced the intransience of life. Right now. So early.

I tell myself I need this to mean something. I tell myself I need to live. Now.

Now.

Finish the book I started writing, lose the last 20 pounds, apply to PhD programs I’ll “never get into.” Read the books gathering dust on my night stand. Spend time in an ashram. Live in Europe. Do some fucking yoga.

But it’s all so clichéd – that embrace life carpe diem bullshit after somebody dies – because what are the facts? The fact is this death will fade, this loss will drift into my past, my life will go on, and slowly, without my knowing, in will creep the illusion of security, the vast fallacy of permanence, the great human trick  – and I will buy it again, once more – the rabbit in the hat – becoming deluded, believing I know where I’m going to be tomorrow.

Assuming that I will “be”, at all, tomorrow.

Resting secure in the insane notion that I’ve got this life thing covered.

And then, I’ll start complaining again. Stressing about the lone $2.43 in my bank account. Agonizing about my prospects for finding a job when I’m done with school. Feeling the weight of the unfinished. Wondering how I’m failing my kids. Bitching at my mother. Cursing the halted traffic.

But for now, yeah, I’m free of that stuff, breathing a little deeper the air of this strange universe, welcoming the delta winds on my face, and my kids haven’t annoyed me in four days. Today, yes, I’m trembling in the joy and energy of existence, of my life.

Because it IS.

And so you see. I have no closure here, nothing to say. I’ve got no wit. Nothin’ clever up in here, today.

Just life, I guess.

May that always be enough.

And until we meet again, Uncle Jeffy, rest in sweet peace.

What the hell happened up there with all that alliteration? How cute.

Anyway, let’s talk about “push presents.”

Unclear on the concept? Doubting the little voice in your head whispering the likely definition? Can’t quite grasp the implications? Well, just for funsies, let’s borrow Wikipedia’s definition (this is a BLOG, after all, not some academic research paper)… “A push present (also known as a ‘push gift’ or ‘baby bauble’) is a present a new father gives a new mother when she gives birth to their child.”

Setting aside all criticism of the heteronormativity being displayed in the aforementioned definition, let me just say that if I hear the words “baby bauble” ever again I’m going to vomit on my keyboard without restraint.

Anyway, before I looked it up – you know, delved deep into investigative journalism for the sake of this profound post – I suspected I would hate the idea of a “push present.” Just call it a gut feeling. However, after reading the following drivel from “Linda Murray,” this gut feeling materialized into a concrete disdain for the entire concept of “push present,” and the distinct awareness that I would punch my husband in the nuts if he attempted to give me one.

I mean seriously, if THIS is what it is, I don’t want anything to do with it:

“According to Linda Murray, the executive editor of BabyCenter.com, ‘It’s more and more an expectation of moms these days that they deserve something for bearing the burden for nine months, getting sick, ruining their body. The guilt really gets piled on.’ Other sources trace the development of the present to the increased assertiveness of women, allowing them to ask for a present more directly, or the increased involvement of the men in pregnancy, making them more informed of the pain and difficulties of pregnancy and labor.”

OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD do you really think some GIFT is going to make up for the fact that I now pee on myself when I sneeze, my tits kick it near my belly, and my stomach  bulges like an overflowing cupcake? (Also, Linda Bite Me Murray, “ruining their body?” REALLY? Screw you.)

Oh, honey, yes, I just endured morning sickness, a pin-sized bladder, waddling and back pain for nine months, culminating in the most excruciating few hours of my life, during which time I rallied the strength of 10,000 women to push a gigantic baby out of a barely-participating vagina – I shit on a table, got hemorrhoids and rips in inhumane places, and I now face cracked nipples, dripping breastmilk, emotional turmoil, no sleep and a lifetime of guilt and responsibility [having just become somebody’s MOTHER]… but that white gold ring you got me? Oh, yes. That makes up for it. I now see how appreciated I am. I see that you totally “get it,” sweet cheeks. Thank GOODNESS I’m appreciated.

What do they think we’re fucking stupid?

On what planet does the purchasing of a trinket or furniture or jewelry indicate a man’s “involvement in pregnancy” or make them “more informed of the pain and difficulties of pregnancy and labor?”

You want to show me you care? You want to give me a “push present?” Here. How about one of these:

Love me. Go to work. Don’t cheat. Wash the fucking dishes. Take the newborn OUT OF THE HOUSE so I can actually sleep (cause the living room ain’t cuttin’ it sunshine). Understand that I need my mother more than I need you right now. Realize I won’t have sex with you for at least 2 months and possible 6 more after that. Let my friends come over. Don’t ask me what I “did all day.” Hold your baby. Wear your baby. Learn to put him to sleep. Stand by my side.

Love your child. Be a father. Sit with me for a moment and gaze at this perfect creation.

Spend the rest of your life as my partner and friend and lover, raising this little being we just created.

How’s that for a damn push present?

Parents.com suggests some “amazing” gifts for women who “rocked Labor & Delivery,” [and they suggest we should “start dropping hints” to our “hubs” – What is wrong with these people?!] such as rings with the kid’s birthstone, necklaces, a fancy rocking arm chair, a family vacation, a big screen TV, and, my personal favorite: PLAYDATE CALLING CARDS.

I can’t even inch near the topic of “playdate calling cards.” Not enough time.

As often happens, I believe I can best summarize my feelings about receiving one of these items as a “push present” with a graph, or two.

First of all, it appears that a push present is intended to show the mother what a badass she is, to congratulate her on a job well done. Well, here’s my thought on that:

And really, here’s the bottom line: there’s nothing wrong with buying somebody a gift. I get that. HOWEVER, the reality of the situation, for me, is as follows: I don’t care what my husband were to buy me, it would not mean shit next to the newborn baby I am holding in my arms.

I made a pie chart to demonstrate.

You feel me here? I almost find it demeaning…as if some item, some material good, some PURCHASE could “thank me” for carrying and birthing a human being, for becoming a mother, for the courage and strength and power contained in a woman giving birth, could recognize the sacrifice I have made and will make for the rest of my life…and, perhaps most offensively, that this item would do so more powerfully than the child herself.

So yeah. For now, I’ll just stick with the baby, as the greatest fucking “baby bauble” in the world.

wretch.