We all know an infant “sleeping through the night” is the holy grail of parenthood about 12 of us have actually accomplished but all of us are somehow expected to make happen, but hey. Who the fuck is counting?

And we all know that if your baby is not “sleeping through the night” one of two things is happening:

• Your baby is an asshole. No wait. That’s not right. She’s a “bad baby.” Bad babies don’t sleep through the night. GOOD babies do. (Knowing this, sometimes when my baby wakes up at 3am, I hold him close and look him dead in the eyes and say “Arlo, STOP BEING A BAD BABY. Don’t you want to be good? Good babies don’t demand the boob at 1am 2am 3am and 5am. They are GOOD in that they comprehend the sleep needs of their parents, at 8 months.” Strangely, he just looks at me like “Why is there no nipple in my mouth, loser?”)
• YOU are an asshole. That’s right. Stop complaining. You’re having sleep problems because you haven’t SLEEP TRAINED your baby.

So basically if your baby is not the problem you are the problem. Simple.

Oh just knock it off. I’m not trying to make an argument about sleep training or not sleep training. Well, yes, I absolutely think you are a dick for letting your 3-month-old scream uncontrollably until he vomits on himself and then on the 3^rd day he gives up and you’re all “SUCCESS!” and tell all your friends about it on Facebook. Sorry, but that’s some fucked-up shit. On the other hand, if it keeps you from driving yourself off a cliff, do what you do. Whatever. Perspective.

But most people don’t do that. And there are many variations of “sleep training” and most of them are pretty civil, from what I hear, having never actually successfully “sleep trained” anything in my entire life.

The only one to not sleep with us and nurse pretty much all night was Georgia, who actually screamed “Thank GOD I’m FINALLY FREE!” when we put her in a crib at 3-4 months.

George in her crib like a motherfucking boss

My friend said she got her 9-month-old to sleep half the night in the crib (I only want a few hours, folks, JUST A FEW) by going away for 2 days and having her husband give the baby a bottle and then back in the crib, with some limited crying. Next month I’m going to a beginners’ yoga retreat (THEY PROMISE ME FAT PEOPLE CAN DO YOGA) at an ashram in the Sierra Nevada (I can’t make this shit up), so our plan is for Mac to attempt the same.

My expectations of this working are hovering around 5. Percent. As in, 5% likelihood of success.

Why? I don’t know why. Because we suck. Because we’re subpar humans. Because we’ve just never done it. Because the crying makes my soul hurt. Because maybe I have defective children. Because I DON’T KNOW WHY.

Because a good portion of my life feels like a constant state of “winging-it” while the rest of the world appears all in control, planned out and solid, while I’m over here flailing in “WTF is happening” land and wondering how I could get my hands on some of the Kool-Aid they’ve evidently consumed.

Actually, maybe not.

But I know I’m not the only one, and so, this post if for you, losers who have never successfully sleep trained their children. Or really, anybody who has kids who aren’t “sleeping through the night.”

LOSERS.

I get you.

Does your head hurt every single day when your eyes open? Me too. Sometimes my cheekbones ache. I didn’t even know that was a thing until this most recent one came along.

Usually my eyes open and I think to myself “Oh god no,” which is not exactly a “fresh start” to my morning but we do what we can. The prospect of copious amounts of coffee and having no choice whatsoever in the matter are the only two things dragging me out of bed. I rely on the bright screen of my phone and the utter cuteness of my baby babbling next to me to remind me that dying is not the way to go here.

LEAVE ME ALONE I’M A LITTLE DRAMATIC SOMETIMES.

well, she came in our bed sometimes…

And I understand the weight. On the shoulders and forehead and back. It hurts almost all the time. I want to get to the gym but I can’t. Well, I can, but it’s so much. If I ate better I’d feel better. Why the simple carbs when I’m tired? Why the sugar? Next month I’m going to an ashram where I will be whipped into shape faster than you can say “loose-fitting hemp pants.”

I imagine I’ll come back a yogi.

Sometimes I put the milk in the cupboard, and sometimes I get really, really angry at my kids over really, really stupid shit and as it’s happening I realize I am actually nearing the delusional insane/profound irritability state of sleep deprivation and I think to myself “JANELLE YOU MUST SLEEP TRAIN. DO SOMETHING!”

But when 10pm rolls around I just collapse again into bed, with my baby at my side, because sleep, now. I guess. I don’t know if I could do this if I had to work outside the home. What did I do before? I can’t recall.

BTW: Why do we get on each other’s cases for sleep training/not sleep training when the real thing we should be enraged insane livid pissed about is that WE HAVE NO FUCKING PAID MATERNITY LEAVE in this country?

And then there’s the weekends. If my husband’s home, he takes the baby in the morning and I feel 40-60% human again.

And I get that sometimes the whole house is asleep and you’re awake and then you’re sure you really have lost it because what are you doing awake? But the quiet.

And I get that sometimes you hand your baby to your partner and say “I need 20 minutes without a human touching me, looking at me, actually, near me at all.”

And, if your partner works and you stay home (and therefore the nighttime parenting usually falls on you), I get wanting to bludgeon the motherfucker (lovingly, of course, and just a LITTLE) with something that will hurt but not kill because just look at him over there snoring (the partner, not the baby).

It doesn’t all suck

And I get that none of that is all there is, and there’s the cuddles and laughing and baby snores and fists and the smell of them after the bath as they tuck up against you, and the kiss you give his head anyway, 3 or 9 or 12 times a night as you do that grab-and-roll thing to nurse on the other side, and the softness of the breath, the cheeks and neck. I know there’s a gratefulness that you can be there, even as you’re hating it, and the oldest one will be 18 in 5 years.

There is always that, too, or maybe that’s only because I’ve been doing this for 13 years, and it feels like 9 days, and one of them is going to go soon. I’m not saying I know more than you. I think it’s pretty clear I don’t. And I remember when all I felt was resentment. Love, but resentment. Because it couldn’t possibly be this hard, and yet it was. And I couldn’t see through or out because I had never gotten through or out but now I have a kid who doesn’t need me at all at night, and sleeps in a space all her own, and with her, I’m through, and out, and can’t even recall.

So now, now I’m not angry. I’m just tired. Well, sometimes I’m angry.

And I still haven’t figured it out.

And maybe you haven’t either.

So I wanted you to know. You’re not the only loser. And when I come back a yogi, I’ll tell you everything about how to fix all your shit, because I know, I know it’s right around the corner.

The same. The tired.

The end.

It’s all right there. Or here, actually.

Right here on my fucking chest.

Arlo is relieved that I’ve finally been successfully sleep trained.

*******

We’re all facing the “most sacred job in the world” armed with nothin but ourselves. 

I insist there’s beauty right there. And a shitload of humor. A SHITLOAD OF FUCKING HUMOR. Because it’s funny, goddamnit, the whole thing.

And I wrote that too.
That part was really, really fun. Alongside even the most intense parts of that book, I was laughing my ass off (IN MOMENTS, okay, I’m not a monster). I may be a monster.

Somebody messaged me today saying her favorite passage in my book was the dinosaur porn one. Here it is:

“Let’s not talk about how we all became better versions of ourselves the day we became parents, and, please, would you stop pretending you did? Because your holier-than-thou shit makes me worry you watch dinosaur porn after the kids go to bed. Your steadfast focus on seasonal cupcakes and organic kombucha concerns me. Look, I’ve got some too. I know all about gut flora. But please. Is that all there is?”

When Georgia found out Arlo got to write directions for how to please him, she decided she wanted in on the action.

*****

Dear Mom,

When I wake up in the morning, I need you to be ready to party. Right now. As I enjoy it. I like partying. I like furniture jumping, yelling and being naked. Basically I’m you when you were 20.

I need you to make me pancakes. I like pancakes. I only like eating things I like.

Stop talking about protein. I don’t give a shit about protein. What I give a shit about is pancakes on my plate.

If you put something on my plate that I’m not sure I like, I will tell you I don’t like it and do pretty much everything other than try it. If you play a super stupid game with me I may try it. Yeah, I’ll try it, but I might spit it out. But you can’t get mad at me because you said I just needed to “try one bite.” At some point you’ll give up because I’m so fucking annoying at the table nobody can stand me.

Don’t hate yourself. I’m just better at this. I’m actually having fun.

That’s your downfall. You don’t think this is fun.

I think this is fun. That’s why I always win.

Speaking of food, I like fruit, so please mostly or always just feed me fruit. Sometimes I like chicken but I don’t like any other meat that isn’t chicken so just call all meat-like substances chicken and you’ll have a better chance of me eating it.

Chance. I said “Chance.” Calm down.

I like to do everything myself always unless I need your help. If you try to help me when I don’t want it I’ll throw a temper tantrum because I hate feeling belittled, but if you don’t help me immediately when I need help I’ll cry really, really hard because obviously you’re never there when I need you and I’m pretty sure nobody has ever loved me ever and I am a forsaken, lost child alone in a cold dark world.

I’m a complex, mercurial human you can only hope to understand.

I like doing chores that I like doing, which you’ll recognize because they’re MY idea, and I like getting dressed when I want to get dressed but if you want me to clean up a mess I made or get dressed when I don’t feel like it I just won’t do it. Ever. I’ll sit down. I’ll turn around. I’ll walk backwards. I’ll do a thousand things but I won’t do that. Why do you bother convincing me? We can do this all day.

I like swinging.

Basically I like doing things that I like. I like the park. I like swinging, and I like running. Because they’re fun.

You know what’s not fun? Naps. I fucking hate naps.

Naps are for assholes.

But if I don’t get a nap I’ll act possessed by insane demon spawn by 3pm. Not napping actually makes me more wild and unpredictable, and really quite miserable in general, but since I hate naps you need to figure something else out, maybe drive somewhere 30-40 minutes away around 1 or 2 or 3pm. Maybe I’ll sleep then. Give it a shot. But if you have somewhere to be and you’re relying on me napping in the car so I’m not demon spawn, I definitely won’t nap.

That’s for damn sure.

Why are you crying? I love you.

I’d love you more though if you’d stop letting me down. If you tell me we can do something and then we can’t, I’ll remember it around bed time and hold it against you. You know, like if you tell me I get a bath but then I don’t get a bath for some reason I’ll throw my head back and wail so you’ll wonder if perhaps I have been seriously injured, physically, but actually it’s just my heart suffering under the weight of your bullshit.

Also that one time you told me I could have a playdate with my boy T but then you cancelled because I had the flu? We need to talk about that. Now.

If you’d stop letting me down I wouldn’t have to act this way right before bed, when I’m tired and worn out because I didn’t take a nap, because naps are for assholes.

You also bother me when you fail to adhere to the random incoherent patternless rules I invent, including, but not limited to: 1.) Which days are doughnut days; 2.) Who pushes the elevator button; and 3.) Who gets the blue cup.

I fucking hate the blue cup.

We’ve been over this. I feel I’ve been pretty clear on my cup-color needs.

Let’s go have fun. Can we go the park? You promised yesterday.

It was sure cute when you tried to establish the “talk it over chair” thing in our house because you saw it in the preschool and thought it might work here. You’re so cute.

Nothing you see or read will actually work in real life.

I’m glad I’m here to help you.

Want to take a picture of me? I feel like smiling unnaturally.

smiling unnaturally

Are you in a hurry? That’s weird. I suddenly can’t move my body.

We’re going somewhere? I need to hide under my bed.

Is it raining and muddy? Awesome! This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to wear that expensive white tank dress you got me last Easter.

Just remembered, WE FORGOT TO SNUGGLE. Mama WE FORGOT TO SNUGGLE.

Let’s go snuggle.

And then, after that, I can tell you the next way you can please me.

Later, I’ll give you a big ass grin and say something hilarious, or I’ll do something that makes me seem big and growing too fast and you’ll say “Hey kid, get over here and hug me!”

And I’ll say “Sorry, mama, I gave all my hugs and kisses to daddy and his hurt hand.”

And you’ll die.

Don’t die. I need you.

At least I think I do. Sometimes. Sometimes I need you.

The rest of the time I’m wondering what in the hell you’re still doing here.

It’s cool though. We’re friends. I’m 4. I’ll be 5 in August. Then I’ll go to kindergarten. Why are you crying, mom? Why do you look at me like I’m your favorite tiny insane roommate and couldn’t take a breath without me?

It’s alright, mama, I love you too.

Wait. Is that the fucking blue cup again?

Peace out,

The 4-year-old

******

(Hey! There are 5 spots left in my writing workshop that begins next month. Get with it. Get on it.

Fuck your damn blue cup. Wait. Sorry.)

The other day, when I arrived home after doing something amazing (because I was alone, so whatever it was, it was amazing), Georgia yells “Hey mama! Look what we have in the backyard!”

I look out the window and see two puppies out there, just chillin’, as if they were home.

“Um, why do we have puppies in our backyard, dearest honey pot?”

I receive only a slightly nervous smile from the “dearest honey pot” (dripping in sarcasm) in question.

“Can we keep ‘em? Can we keep ‘em? CAN WE CAN WE CAN WE?” The kids are like straight out of a movie.

Uh, nope.

They were abandoned at Mac’s parents’ ranch. He brought them to our house knowing they would probably have to go elsewhere, but I’ve been with the man almost 15 years. I know that look in his eye. If he had his way, we would currently have 3 dogs of questionable intelligence instead of one.

And I would be training them.

Later, I check the mail and open a package of tiny compasses and other tiny gadgets I don’t understand. That’s because Mac and Rocket and are making tiny survival kits that fit in Altoid containers. Obviously.

There are approximately one-thousand-three-hundred and forty-seven empty Altoid containers in my house.

I hate empty Altoid containers.

In my garage, there was a bin with a deer hide in it, soaking in an unknown liquid, because Mac and the kids are “making moccasins.”

As in, from scratch.

There are 4 knives on my mantle because they made knives a few months ago out of saw blades. They still need to carve the handles. They will probably never carve the handles. Saw-blade-knives will probably stay on my mantle forever, because where the fuck does somebody put such a thing?

Yeah I don’t know either.

For 2-9 months there were long pieces of taped wood leaning against walls in various locations in the house and garage (including the bathroom) because Georgia found a rocking chair in a magazine that we couldn’t afford, so Mac is making it for her.

There’s a rabbit hutch and chicken coop in the backyard. I’m 90% sure nobody has cleaned beneath them since they arrived, a year ago.

These are not my projects. These are their projects, and I’m not going to lie, sometimes I hate them. It sounds so cool in theory, and it sounds so cool when I tell you about it, but honestly sometimes it just feels like one more thing, one more mess. One more Thing to Put Away, to deal with, to figure out, and I don’t have any reserves, you know? Like I feel already worn to the bone, and I can’t quite handle a wayward, random deer hide in our this-house-was-clearly-built-in-1948 garage.

They start a new “project” before the last one is done. I feel a vague sense of dread and rage.

They huddle together on the couch sitting on the arms and chest of their dad, watching YouTube videos on how to do the next project. They watch video after video.

I’m probably cooking dinner or doing some other thing I think needs to be done. I’m probably cleaning up or emailing or paying a bill or doing some other Thing that I think just must get done now. I’m doing something IMPORTANT. I’m obsessed with IMPORTANT SHIT.

Sometimes I get mad at Mac for the abandoned projects, the messes made and left for how long? HOW LONG? Who knows. They’re still there.

Then I get mad at myself for getting mad about things that don’t really matter (because it all eventually gets done or cleaned up), and sometimes I wonder how or when or at what point I became The One who feels compelled to be the mess cleaner as opposed to the mess maker. The project asshole as opposed to the project beginner.

This stuff he does, it’s so damn cool: The time with their dad, learning that they can DO THINGS if they just DO IT. Realizing they can have an idea, learn how to execute it, do some work and make it happen. It teaches them patience, endurance, how to get dirty and irritated and inconvenienced. They use their hands. They use their heads. They get creative and active and frustrated and satisfied.

I know all this. I know all of it with all that I am, but it doesn’t matter in the moment sometimes, when I’m 4 days down on sleep and I’m making dinner and thinking of all the things he and the kids “could” be doing and the mess that will be left and even though we clean on Saturdays and maybe Sundays and my husband helps ALL THE DAMN TIME, there’s always more.

There is always, always more.

You know, my life really started 6 years ago, when I got sober. Before that, I didn’t grow or develop or move through things, becoming a new and better person over the years (that’s how life is supposed to work, right?). I pretty much just drank and hoped for the best. Eventually, I didn’t hope for anything at all. I never “moved through” anything in my life. You can’t move through things if you don’t feel them, if you fall unconscious on your pillow each evening, if your reactions are purely self-centered narcissism rooted in attempts to control others in hopes it will fix you. And fear.

But since the day I woke up on March 5, 2009 and realized I was 100% wrong about every aspect of my life, my life has really just become a series of discovering new things I’ve been wrong about. I was always so determined to be right. Oh, shit I’d fight to the death to be right. But I learned through nearly dying of alcoholism that life is really about figuring out how I’m wrong. All the things I’ve been wrong about. One more thing I thought was true that is just not true.

That is where the freedom lies. That is where the growth comes. That is where we find better ways to live and be of service to others, ourselves, our families, our lives.

And I realized recently, due to a trauma to my family, that I’ve been wrong about the shit that I thought mattered. I was very, very wrong.

I’m done being the asshole who’s bitching about the messes. It matters. Yes, it matters, to clean up after one’s self, to treat your belongings with respect, to contribute to the house in a way that teaches you to be a decent human and member of the home, and community, and earth. WORK, matters.

But I’m done using every fucking spare moment to straighten, clean, pay, arrange, organize, text, email, accomplish necessary tasks. I’m done using every spare moment “engaged in a productive activity.” I’m done looking around this house and seeing only and all that’s wrong. When did I make that “my role?”

I’m fucking done.

Tan the deer hide, kids. Sure, start the damn fire with flint and steel. Good thing there’s 75 pinecones by the woodstove (George collected kindling). And yes, I’ll pick out the fabric for that rocking chair. Just stick it on the end of the kitchen table. We’ll push it aside at dinner. Again. And sew it in a month or two.

I still won’t say “yes” to a couple more dogs, and I’ll still care about chores and work, but I’ll get on the floor for a few minutes with my kids, even though there’s 9 days of laundry in the living room, and I’ll forget about the fucking laundry in the living room, because I can, because I CAN.

I’ll still get irritated, and I’ll still make people clean, and I’ll still bitch and moan. SOMEBODY HAS TO BE A FUCKING GROWN-UP HERE PEOPLE. See? Oops.

Yeah, I’ll leave the perfection to those deeply spiritual Zen mamas (that allegedly exist). But I’m done focusing on the work, the mess, the “problem” so acutely that I fail to see the meaning of what’s happening, the life right here in front of me.

I threw the ball with George for 10 minutes in the front yard. I tell you people she damn near fell over from the shock.

Baby steps.

Because you know, these kids are HERE, NOW, and they’re safe, and they’re mine, and it isn’t about “embrace every moment” (impossible), or some “some day you’ll look back and remember the deer hide fondly” theory. Maybe I will or maybe I won’t. It’s about the fact that I realized recently that the joy, life, innocence and cohesion of this very family right here is sacred, and it’s always already at risk, and there’s a whole world out there of pain, threat, tragedy and beauty, all of which will come my way, and theirs, so each fucking chance we have to make Altoid-container-survival-kits is a chance to live, together, in all this mess.

And really, in the end, I don’t have much else.

“What? We’re making moccasins.” (cutting the fat off the hide)