Yesterday as I was getting into my car, there was an early teen-aged girl (probably 12 or 13) walking toward me from across the parking lot.

For some reason I watched her for a moment, long enough to see her jump up on a curb, then playfully hop down again – landing with a sort of silly childish stomp. With her first step back in stride she looked around a little nervously, patted her hair and bangs, making sure it was still in place.  There was perhaps a splash of embarrassment in her face as we locked eyes.

In our glance I realized I had witnessed something profound.  [I know it’s weird, but I’ve always been some sort of freak who sees gorgeous sacred moments in parking lots with strangers (and other inconsequential events). But I can’t help it; it’s how I roll. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a Hemingway novel. Or Melville. Definitely something sad and deep and American, and hysterical.]

What I saw was a perfect encapsulation of our girls’ precarious dilemma – all that troubles our beloved tween girls.

All that troubles my little girl.

Because as she trotted alongside her dad she let herself be a kid for a minute – risked her hair getting messed up. Risked her friends seeing. Risked play. Risked abandon.

And I wanted to hug her.

I knew the power of what I was witnessing. I knew how real it is to her. That moment of fear, of regret, of uncertainty “Did I do something wrong? I shouldn’t have done that.” It was all there, in that moment. The juxtaposition – the transformation – right before my eyes, in 3 seconds, from girl to young woman. Almost.

My little girl is there. Nearing there. Standing on the brink of adulthood. Teetering between freedom and restraint. Jumping up on curbs then looking around nervously. Wearing bows in her hair to look more “grown up.” Rolling on the ground like an insane puppy.

Pulling away sometimes.

Playing in the sand with buckets sometimes.

Holding me sometimes.

Patting her hair nervously sometimes.

Trotting along beside me.

Next month she turns 10...

So a lot of people I know are having babies for the first time. And that got me thinking about the somewhat odd first conversation I often have with first-time moms…”Congratulations! Are you suicidal?”

Okay so I don’t exactly ask that directly. But I almost do.

And here’s why.

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child I was 22 years old, a senior in college, very, very wild, and very very not ready to be a mother. I had the kid because I loved the father  (and by golly I still do) and I didn’t realize how immature I was, because I was immature. All immature people think they’re mature. Bit of a vicious cycle really.

I mean I think that’s why I had her. I don’t really know why exactly. The alternatives just didn’t feel right.

So I began the journey and holy shit was I pissed.

And elated.

And pissed again.

You can read about all that fun here.

So when she finally came out things got a little bit funky. I loved her instantly – would have laid down my life for her the day she was born – could never imagine my life without her. But I was also R.A.G.I.N.G inside, at times. Or at the same time. Concurrently.

It’s really freaking weird. That postpartum depression thing is whack (to use the medical term).

I didn’t know what was happening and nobody mentioned it and I got sicker and sicker. I got so sick I thought if I told the doctor how I was feeling, the doctor would take my baby away. Those were some of the saddest days of my life. Terrifying.

Yep, people, that’s the way it rolled for me.

And then one day my toddler baby daughter cried and cried and wouldn’t sleep and I couldn’t take it one more moment and all those days of sorrow and insanity exploded inside me and I pinched her on the leg in anger. Then I fell to the ground with her in my arms, weeping and begging her to forgive me, realizing in that moment she would probably be better off somewhere else. I had intentionally hurt my baby and I didn’t care if the doctor took her away. (Incidentally, it didn’t even leave a mark on her. But it left a mark on me.)

So I went to the doctor and the doctor said “no more monkeys jumping on the bed.” No, she didn’t. She said “here’s some Zoloft. Take one a day and call me in a month. You have borderline postpartum psychosis but you’ll be fine.”

So I took the pills and I got much better and I survived. The end.

But…given this joyous history, I feel compelled when my friends or even semi-close acquaintances have a baby for the first time (because that first time motherhood is really somethin’) to talk about THEM, as individuals. How are YOU? I can see the baby is fabuloso. But you. Do you want to shoot yourself in the head? Are you wondering when your body is going to go back to normal? Are you searching for your identity?

Are you fucking flipping out?

Because in my case, I felt guilty and insane to have the feelings I had – everybody kept talking about how lucky I was and blessed and whatever – and what am I supposed to say? “Yeah, actually I’m drinking a 1/5 of vodka every night to cover up the fact that I’m really not digging this motherhood thing and if I had my way I’d be shooting pool shit-faced at the pub whilst smoking cigarettes and flirting with my man, as opposed to sitting here at this goddamned mother’s group talking about spit-up and nap schedules and tummy time with a bunch of overjoyed women I can’t relate to and who intimidate the hell outta me because they appear to have been blessed with the mothering gene that I am, obviously, lacking.”

No, I wouldn’t say that.

I’d smile and nod and act okay.

And get sicker and sicker and sicker, alone.

Because nobody talks much about how it sometimes effing BITES to have a kid for the first time. Nobody talks about the death that occurs with the entrance of this new life.

Death?

Yeah, I said it. Death.

And if you’re a mother, you know exactly who dies. The old you. The woman you’ve been your whole life. The identity you’ve nurtured and cradled. Your individuality (to an extent). Your freedom (to an extent).

You are a mother now. You live, all the time, just a little, for that baby. Even when you’re not with them, you’re with them. You may be at work. You may be at school. You may be 10,000 miles away.

But you are not alone. That baby is still with you. Your life is not your own anymore. Not entirely.

No matter where you go, you are tied. Forever. Forever.

Suddenly and completely and irrevocably.

And that, my friends, is fucking intense. No matter how “prepared” you are.

Don’t you think?

So we say goodbye to our old selves. The women we were. The little girl who became a teen who became a woman and then, a mother.  Never the same. It takes a little getting used to.

And it’s okay. It’s all exactly as it should be.

But some of us aren’t quite ready for that change.

I wasn’t.

I remember thinking I had ruined my life. Thrown it away. I wished I could just go back to my old body and my old life and my old existence. My old state of being. Selfish? Yes. Immature? Yes. But real. And serious. And true.

So I mention it to my friends. To give them an out, a window of opportunity – a chance to say “holy fuck what did I sign up for? I’m dying here.”

And I’ll understand.

And that time I spent in silence and pain and despair can be put to some good use.

Because in the end, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not one single bit of it.

Plus, I had two more, so it can’t be that bad. In fact, it can be downright lovely. And that’s the real message.

Ha.

So…wanna hear something great? My daughter got a “pink slip” for punching some kid.

Yeah. Not that great. Or really at all.

The good news is it wasn’t in the face. It was in the arm, which somehow, in my mind, makes it better. And she was provoked, which makes it better only when I consider the alternative: child randomly punching people without being provoked (totally more alarming, don’t ya think?).

So…she was trying to do her work (which is totally believable given her oddly driven, focused and responsible approach to the world), and some kid started making farting noises in her face repeatedly. She tried moving; he followed her. She walked over to the teacher but the teacher was busy – the kid kept on and on – she grew enraged, hit her max – and punched him. The end.

When I first heard this story from Ava, entertained the image of some boy tormenting my child, invading her space and disrespecting her requests to back off, the first thing I wanted to say was “Good. Sounds like the lil’ fucker deserved it. Next time, kick him in the teeth too.” But if I regularly followed the first thought that entered my mind, I would undoubtedly be in jail, so I waited for something more suitable to creep in.

Winning Idea #2 was that it was the teacher’s fault. She wasn’t watching. Why the hell was she letting some spaz walk around bothering kids who were trying to work? Clearly she’s a bad teacher and I should call the school and yell empty threats.

Upon more careful consideration, however, I realized that one was a fail as well.

“Because the bottom line is, kid, no matter what, you just can’t hit people.” (Unless they are touching you, in which case you have every right to go to town wailing their asses into oblivion.)

This one is kind of complicated though. Of course she shouldn’t have lost it like that. On the other hand, I hear this kid has ADD and didn’t take his medication and was, apparently, pretty much batshit crazy toward her. And everybody has their limits. But no matter what he did, Ava can’t hit people. That’s obvious and I told her as much.

What bothers me is that it feels like my kid spends more time dealing with the antics of her classmates than doing any actual learning. Maybe it’s an age thing (4^th graders, anyone?) or maybe it’s a public school thing (this is my first time with kids in public school, though I went there as a kid).

Her old school was really structured and traditional and strict, which has its own drawbacks, but at least I can guarantee every kid was given ample space (metaphorically and literally) to do his or her work, and there is no way a teacher would not have intervened if some kid was chasing another down making farting noises in the classroom.

Part of me wants to stick it out and see how it develops, see if it calms down, see if she adjusts. Part of me wants to get her the hell outta there.

You guys have any experience with this sort of thing? Would love to hear it.

I am so tired.

Okay so I don’t want to say I made a mistake.

But I think I made a mistake.

I am too tired.

FOR.MY.LIFE.

If I wake up at 5am, clean, make breakfast, get Rocket up, get Ava ready for school, start homeschool by 8am, put baby down at 9 or 10am, continue homeschool, take a shower, leave for grad school at 11, go to classes, study between them, race home, make phone calls on the way home that I’ve been neglecting for too long, get home, see kids, feed kids, bathe kids if they stink, put kids to bed, read, study, work from home (oh yeah, I’m doing that too), write, get to bed by 11pm – and actually SLEEP, I can usually manage to get up the next day and start all over again.

BUT, as you know from this post, most of the time it’s “go to bed at 11pm and realize you can’t freaking sleep because there is too much on your mind and you can’t stop reflecting on how you’re totally not meeting any of your kid’s needs on any level in any way and pretty soon the ball is going to drop and Ava is 9 which is almost 10 which is almost 12 and everybody knows 12 is the beginning of prepubescent insanity (so you’ve lost her) and Rocket and Georgia and AND…it’s pretty much all going to hell in a handbasket. The end.”

Irrational nutjob am I.

Seriously, people. What the hell was I thinking?

I want to go back to the office, where it’s safe.

I want to drop my kids off at school where they become somebody else’s problem (did I just say that out loud?).

I want to sleep at night like I did when I was a kid and my head would hit the pillow and immediately. I’m gone.

I want to not suck fear all the time. Like air. Fear of failing. Of letting kids down. Of missing my life. Of bad grades. Of regretting. Of not getting a job. Of totally and completely blowing it for real.

I want I want I want I want.

I sound like a spoiled kid.

Because the truth is, I’m living the damn dream. I’ve never had it so good. My fears are inventions of an overtired brain. The death-and-doom scenarios concoctions of a hyperactive ego.

Shit, I’ve already totally and completely blown it. And YET, I’m fine.

[Of course I’m using that term loosely.]

Which reminds me, I heard this woman say she has two prayers: one for the morning and one for the night. In the morning it’s “Whatever;” in the night it’s “Oh well.”

Now that’s some spirituality I can get behind. Bring it on, life. Whatever you got. And then, at the end of the day, acceptance that nothing ever goes as anticipated. Oh well. Over it. Movin’ the hell on.

And then, perhaps, rather than my panties getting’ all knotted up and keeping me awake all night, I could let go and my head would hit the pillow and immediately. I’d be gone.

Because seriously people, nobody respects my visions. And they aren’t even big.

Take this evening, for example. I made carnitas. Wow. Real food, at dinner. Mac was coming home from work – I was home – I was not doing something more pressing. Soooo, being the superstar mother that I am, I decided that we would, for a change, eat a real meal at the table together as a family (this used to be something I was adamant had to occur every day – but now, I’m lucky to get it twice a week, which I’m sure will contribute to the early degeneration of my offspring, a theory that torments me, nightly, at approximately 1am) – and, back on track – so I’m making this dinner and puttin’ in the effort and being cheerful and whatnot and the 9-year-old, well, she decided to have one of her 9-year-old episodes.

She was horrendous. Full of drama and self-pity and nobody can say anything right and she’s about to slaughter her brother and me in fury (for some reason) but then it’s tears and I’m trying trying trying to fix it but I cannot.  I attempt jokes, fail. Strong hand, fail. Fail. Fail. So when Mac gets home I’ve quit trying, everybody’s pissed and the baby’s crying and I’m about to chuck carnitas at the cat and Rocket’s putting his Legos in his milk (my attention was on Ava, remember?), so we sit and eat our food in irritated small-talk and all I want is to get it over with so I can read the 75 pages I’ve got looming. For tomorrow.

NOW.

Do you see the beauty of those two simple words?

OH fucking WELL.

(Okay fine, three.)

Actually, I can think of three more: We will survive.

The end.

I have a real toddler.

My first two kids weren’t “real” toddlers. Evidently they went through the toddler stage, but they didn’t really ACT like toddlers. They just kind of hung out. I’ve never bought those drawer or door locks or done any “toddler-proofing” (what a stupid expression).

This one, though? This Georgia character? She’s the real deal.

And holy crap my friends, this is a lot of work.

I spend most of my time averting disaster.

If she can reach it, she pulls it over. On her head. On the floor. On the cat.

If she’s in the bathroom, she’s inspecting the toilet bowl brush.

Or the trash.

She’s climbed into the dishwasher. Onto the kitchen island. Attempted entrance into the fireplace. And will leave through any opened doors.

Gets stuck under tables. Gets inside bags, baskets and boxes.

Wedges herself into all accessible small spaces. Then screams.

Topples head-first into items she’s attempting to scale, such as, the bathtub.

Climbs stairs.

In short, if there is an item in the room that is disgusting and messy or has the ability to choke her or cause some other grievous bodily harm or threaten her immediate well-being, she makes a damn beeline for it and if I’m not RIGHT THERE, there will be disaster.

Not maybe. For sure.

Everything I do I have to do it quickly, because there is a toddler on my tail. She’s gotta be RIGHT up in my business, all the time. If I’m unloading the dishwasher, she’s standing next to me grabbing shit out of it, preferably knives.

And what is she some sort of power crawler? She’s NEVER IN THE SAME PLACE for more than 3 seconds. She’s there. I look away. She’s GONE.

And then I’m bolting around “Georgia!?” (as if she’s some sort of dog that comes when called), finally finding her wrapped in the computer power cords and grinning at me like “What?”

Taking a shower. Always a treat.

Three to five minutes during which I leave the toddler unattended. I usually resort to letting her play with a roll of toilet paper or some other weirdness, because at least that way she’s not engaging in potentially life-threatening behavior and it’s a mess I know and anticipate, which somehow makes it easier.

I guess.

There is really no way to make toddlerhood easier.

This shit pretty much just bites.

Except for the fact that they’re freaking adorable and are still babies most of the time, cuddling and being fat and babbling and laughing and kissing and perfect.

Well, when they’re not eating the cat’s food.

Or pulling books off the shelves.

Or crawling into the refrigerator.

For the tenth time today.

Because your older kids just can’t seem to figure out the whole refrigerator-door shutting phenomenon.

Shiiiiiiiiit.

Let’s just look at a picture. To forget.

Or maybe, to remember.

"Who, me?"