I used to stop by blogs like SouleMama. I would gaze at the beautiful pictures of gorgeous kids in handmade clothing doing soul-nourishing activities. I ogled at the gardens and hills and trees and lakes. My jaw fell in wonder at the knitted creations and felted little dolls, the gorgeous linens, wooden push toys and fireside gatherings…comforted by the earthy hue of their existence…all these beautiful people doing beautiful things in beautiful places. It all just seemed so mellow, so wholesome and good. like soul food in blog form. And for a moment, while reading, I’d think “Maybe I could do that, too.”

But then one day I read this post, and I haven’t gone back, because I can’t take it. It’s like a mirror to my own parenting deficiencies. Even though SouleMama specifically states that her blog is just a PIECE of her life, and there’s “raised voices” and messes in her house, I don’t believe it because I don’t see it. It’s my problem. Not hers. I mean that. If she pulls off the shit she seems to pull off, mad respect.

As the classic line goes…”It’s me. Not you.”

Only in this case, it’s actually true.

Here was the deal-breaker for me…

“On a recent day in December, on a day much like any other day this year, I watched as Calvin rose earlier than anyone else in the house to take care of his chickens. He opened the coop, changed the water, freshened the food, brought them scraps, and gave the bedding a stir. Coming back in, with his littlest brother just toddling into the kitchen, Calvin made them both breakfast. There was some reading after that in front of the fire, and a game of chess with his other brother. At midday, he volunteered to help his Papa   butcher the remaining turkeys, taking breaks here and there to work in his treehouse, and target practice on a bale of hay with his handmade bow and arrow. As evening neared, we left the house…stopping first at the local natural foods store where he sells his eggs. Proceeding into the city, my little guy joined his friends backstage and donned his black tights, ballet slippers and stage makeup and danced his way onto the stage.

In between those moments, I am certain that he also held the baby while I took a shower, likely knit a row or two on his scarf, probably ‘polished’ his Converse (yes, really), may have made his little sister an orange fleece hat, and definitely listened to some hip-hop.” (www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2012/01/a-day-in-the-life.html?cid=6a00d8341c4ea853ef0162ffffffad970d)

And henceforth, in my head, every time somebody mentions SouleMama I think to myself…JOKINGLY, sarcastically, just for funsies…”You mean, Soule-Crushing Mama?”

Cause I read those lines and my mind goes like this:

Wait hold up. Your child got up by himself to do chores, cooked his sibling breakfast, volunteered to work, all by noon? He then played with a homemade bow and arrow, sold “his eggs” at a “local natural food store,” did ballet, built a treehouse, all while intermittently holding a baby, knitting, polishing his shoes and MAKING A FUCKING HAT?

And he did this in ONE DAY? And this is a day “like any other day?”

Holy mother of God I am doing something seriously WRONG.

Soule-Crushing.

Where’s the yelling? Where’s the cajoling? Where’s the mayhem? Where’s the bickering, exhaustion, whining?

I mean the sheer LOGISTICS of my life negate any possibility for a day like that one.

Are my kids the only ones acting like hyenas? Are my kids the only ones who chuck themselves on the floor in existential anguish when approached with the prospect of house work?

Where are the bad attitudes, the intermittent apathy, the “kids, please, just stop talking for ONE MINUTE because mom’s about to lose her shit” moments? Where are the temper tantrums, the messes, the screaming-matches? What about racing out the door, late one more time, and the baby takes a dump and you want to weep and the older kid won’t stop asking complex questions and the middle kid STILL doesn’t have his shoes on…?

Soule-crushing.

So I conclude “Either those women are super-powered, or they’re lying, or I’m so deficient it’s ridiculous and my kids are horribly behaved and I’m an even worse mother than formerly thought.”

You see the only part of that day I can even remotely relate to is the killing turkeys part. My husband does that. He’s a butcher. On his family’s ranch. However, I can promise you people, my kids sure as shit aren’t volunteering to help work out there. In fact, they’d pretty much rather recite lines out of 17th-century metaphysical poetry. I mean it’s hard work, it smells like ass, and it’s generally either freezing or like an oven.

When I ask Ava to cook for the younger kids she acts like I just asked her to donate her hair.

We have all kinds of wool we could felt. It’s sitting on a shelf in the craft closet, where it’s remained for the past two years.

We knit. Bi-annually.

The other day I asked the kids to help me plant some flowers in the front yard. Ava responds “you mean, so we can NOT water them and they can die like all the other ones and we can do it again in 3 months?”

Well, yes, smartass, that’s exactly what I mean.

Even the 10-year old gets it.

And this, my friends, is the best I got, and it sure isn’t much – a fact that’s compounded in my brain when I read about a “day like any other” that strikes me as some sort of homemaking ethereal existence of joy.

And she’s like “It ain’t no thang.”

Now don’t misunderstand me. Not only do I have nothing against women like SouleMama, I’m so freaking JEALOUS I COULD CRY.  I support the over-arching values being conveyed by bloggers like that. I admire their work, their devotion and the ethics they reinforce. I admire their LIVES. As she says, they’re only sharing a part of their lives – not the whole story.

But there’s this whiny child in me….”I want my life to be that beautiful!!” I want my kids to wake up knitting shit for the baby and crafting archery tools out of native woods. I want to spin yarn and make jam from berries I’ve grown, sew bonnets out of organic cotton and sell eggs at local stores. That shit is wonderful. It’s beautiful. It’s GOOD.

But the reality of my life is that I live in a small, unimpressive agricultural town in a small, totally unattractive 1970s house next to a dude who drinks Budweiser in his garage all day, smoking Marlboro Reds and doing drunk yardwork. On the other side of me is some gathering of individuals who enjoy marijuana, screaming at their dogs and bad country music. I work. My husband works. All the time. And yet, WE DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING MONEY for Amish pushcarts. Everybody on my street works, all day. My kitchen floor is linoleum. You can hear the freeway from my front yard.

But I TRY, people, I TRY. We got rid of our T.V. We don’t eat many processed foods. Almost all our meat is raised and killed by my husband, I hate American consumerism, we read lots of books, I breastfeed and cosleep and use cloth diapers (um, along with the “other kind”)…I try to engage my kids in imaginative play…I take them outdoors, camping, swimming…but check it out:

I recently came home to a note from Mac, regarding our dogs. It read “Laser needs to poop. Odie is constipated.”

BEAUTIFUL.

You see, no matter what I do, my life just isn’t that beautiful. No matter how hard I try, it just isn’t aesthetically pleasing. It isn’t calm, wholesome or carefully crafted in gorgeous wood. It’s loud, messy, stinky and a little frenzied. It’s plastic and metal and occasionally, it’s frozen food. It’s a few successes and glorious days scattered among hours of messiness and rushing and struggling and flailing.

Those are the rhythms of my fucking day. Not exactly what the Waldorf dude had in mind, I don’t think.

Not because I love it that way, but because it just is. I read those blogs and I think “We should sell everything we own and move to Vermont and grow lavender.” But then I remember that this is where my people are, and I can’t leave my family, and my whole life is here. So this is it for me, for now.

Plus, we can’t afford a big old farm house in the country. Shit, we can’t afford to move anywhere. We can’t afford all wooden toys. And somehow, I can’t get my act together to even do ONE crafty project, let alone 6 in one day. And my children are pretty much always bickering and one day rushes into the next and I’m excited if I get two rooms clean or set up a little play room, or clean bags of crap toys out my house, or turn on some Jimi Hendrix while I clean, so my kids get cultured.

Basically, the women on these blogs are actually DOING the shit I pin on Pinterest and dream about.

So I don’t read that stuff anymore. Because even though it makes my heart smile, and I appreciate it, I just have to accept that my life isn’t that life, no matter how many Waldorf playstands I “pin.”

I am not talking shit about them.

I’m talking shit about me. About the fact that I can’t take it. About the fact that I can’t read those things and believe myself when I say “Janelle, it’s a BLOG. Nobody’s THAT PERFECT.” But they seem that perfect. They seem that capable. Their kids seem that good. All I see is pretty shit.

And clearly, my insecurities are just too big to expose myself to so much beauty. I should find it inspiring. But honestly, you know what I find inspiring? Going over to my lovely friend Kristi’s house, a Montessori teacher, and seeing the way she has crafted these simple, wonderful play spaces for her toddler, out of $10.00 Ikea items.

Because that, my friends, is within my reach.

And I like to stay within my reach. Well, at least close.

And I guess in the end, we do what we can do and appreciate our small, slightly pathetic attempts to nourish our souls, and those of our children.

Right where we are.

1. First, let me just say “thank you.” Your responses to my last post blew my mind. I’m overwhelmed with the caliber of people that read this blog. Thank you.
2. I don’t totally recall this week. As usual, it passed like a fast-moving train. School starts on Wednesday. Somebody explain to me how it is that school starts on August 8. Isn’t that like WAY early?
3. I want summer to stay. I want summer to go. Story of my life.
4. Stay, because it’s summer. And my kids are always around.
5. Go, because it’s summer. And my kids are always around. Ya feel me?
6. In other news, I’m sure I’ll never get to use my thumb again. That doctor made it sound like I was just having some simple surgery (getting a bone spur removed), but it’s excruciating to bend my thumb even the tiniest bit, and I’m like “Dude, doc, what the hell?” And she’s like “Oh, well, yeah. I had to repair your tendon and cut off part of your bone. You’ll probably need a year of physical therapy to get full motion back.” GOOD TIMES.
7. And…let’s get to today. Today was a day of the gods. My baby girl turned two today. Instead of a party, we went to San Francisco. First the zoo, then down the coast a bit to Pacifica, where we ate sushi and had cake, then walked along the Pacifica pier. The day was glorious. I always gush about Northern California. It’s my heart, man, I tell ya.
8. It was the first time I just said “Ah, screw it. Let’s not have a party. She’s TWO. Let’s just go somewhere and have fun.”
9. AND WE DID. Normally I feel all guilty, like a kid needs a party, with gifts and people and balloons and crap. But for some reason, with this kid and this birthday, I didn’t feel guilty. And I thought about the party – the preparation, the money, the WORK – and I realized she’s TWO, and she’d have just a good of time hanging in San Francisco, with her people and the giraffes. And monkeys. She loved the monkeys. Probably because she is part monkey.
10. I love her so much, people, it hurts. Check out our day…(and yes, I’ve been jacking my husband’s Iphone for Instagram. That shit is FUN.)

our little peacock

mama and the big kids, at the zoo

we held hands a lot, and she said “hi” to the animals

this was her face after we told her cake was coming

fascinated with her TWO candles. precious.

gettin’ busy with the cake

after dinner, we went to Pacifica. This is what it looked like.

we walked along the pier, hung out with fisherman,

and met a freaking pelican.

I caught this moment and almost died.

Two suits you, little girl…

And at the end of this day – this day that was too damn good, we sat on the porch for a bit.

Did you see that pretty lady leaning against the pier in the pelican shot? Yeah, that’s my mom. She’s a woman I’ll never get enough of. With every passing year, it becomes a little clearer to me that indeed, I have the best mom in the world.

Forgive me if I’m a little sentimental. But it’s my baby. She turned two. And she’s Georgie.

Happy birthday, little one.

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