You know I don’t give advice, but there’s this one area of life I have so mastered so fully (SARCASM MOTHERFUCKERS) I feel it would be a disservice to humanity to not share.

And that area is: LOSING WEIGHT.

Look, I don’t want to discuss feminism or women’s bodies or getting comfortable with my fatness or whatever the fuck else we all sit around discussing. I KNOW there are fat yogis balancing on their heads, powerful as hell. I KNOW there are women super okay with the rolls of their belly but I also know that those women are not me.

I am neither a fat yogi nor a woman comfortable with her belly.

I feel like shit. My back hurts. I look at myself naked and sorta want to puke. I KNOW I HAVE INTERNALIZED BODY SHAMING NARRATIVES OF SELF HATRED.

I’m not proud. I’m merely stating the facts: I am overfuckingweight and I don’t like it. I’m overweight because I eat too much and believe in the futility of eating one’s feelings yet do it anyway because THAT’S FUN.

Also, I don’t exercise enough.

I wasn’t always overweight. While they were trying to find what was wrong with me (during my active alcoholism), they gave me a bunch of psychiatric diagnoses and put me on 7 to 11 different psychotropic drugs at the same time. I gained 70 pounds in 3 months.

Um…..

And I’ve never quite been able to regain control. But I can’t blame that completely. Sure, that’s how it started, but once it happened I began the spiral into Fuck It All I’m Already Fat and started eating with wild abandon.

I’m not particularly unhealthy. My blood pressure is low. My blood sugar normal.

But I feel like shit.

This is just me. This is not a statement on all fat women in the world, or America. Or even my town. Or even one single other person.

I’m sure if I were a better, more enlightened human, I would

A. get okay with my body as it is; or,

B. do something about it.

I’m working on B.

But I kinda suck at it.

Once, a few years ago, when I was about this weight, I got super pissed off and done with not changing and I lost 40 pounds over a year or so and felt amazing.

Then I got pregnant again and gained it all back that was nearly 2 years ago the end.

Nice story, right?

I hate that story. That story can lick donkey balls.

Sorry. I should be more feminine.

I should stop apologizing.

I AM A FAT APOLOGIZING WOMAN FULL OF ANTI-FEMINIST GUILT AND BAD LANGUAGE.

Okay here’s the deal: I’m trying to lose weight to feel stronger and more able-bodied and in less pain AND to feel more comfortable in my body and clothes.

Here’s how it’s going:

4am: Wake up but against my will. Nurse tiny creature next to me and beg him (in silence of course) to go back to fucking sleep

5am: Breathe a sigh of relief that tiny human fell back asleep, roll over to do the same

5:15am: Wonder why I’m not asleep yet

5:30am: Wonder why I’m not asleep yet

5:45am: Meditate with the vigor of a thousand warriors because JESUS FUCK I NEED SLEEP

6am: Fall asleep

6:30am: Hear alarm go off, want to die

6:36: Get out of bed after looking at phone for 6 minutes even though I know that’s a super bad way to start the day

6:40: Do 7-minute workout thing (dude it’s an app and it rocks and I’ve actually been doing it!)

7am: Eat a healthy breakfast because today is going to be a good clean eating day!

7-10am: Drink 47,000 gallons of coffee but without sugar

10:30am: Healthy snack

1pm: healthy lunch

3pm: Drive around 12 small nations to pick up kids

3:15pm: Realize I’m fucking starving

4pm: Realize I’m dizzy from healthy snack deficiency

4:30pm: Get home. Open fridge. Eat something healthy but wish there was something more filling and also healthy

5pm: Start making dinner

6:30pm: GIVE UP BECAUSE IF FOOD DOESN’T GET IN MY MOTHERFUCKING BELLY RIGHT NOW I MAY DIE OR KILL YOU AND I’M SO TIRED AND I CAN’T EAT A DAMN GRILLED CHICKEN BREAST AND SALAD AGAIN BECAUSE BORING AND FOOD IS COMFORT (NO IT ISN’T) BUT IT KIND OF SEEMS LIKE IT IS SO…

6:45pm: EAT IT ALL,REGRET IT

7pm: Realize I basically negated all my day’s efforts because it’s the night calories that REALLY matter and ohmygodJanelle you suck and you’ll always be fat and nobody likes you.

8pm: Get upset with myself for fat shaming body shaming self bashing and blatant lack of self love.

10pm: Resolve to do better tomorrow.

11pm: Go the fuck to sleep

Then, DUDE CHECK THIS SHIT OUT: I do slightly better tomorrow.

That is actually happening and it’s real. I’ve been making tiny changes and little nudges here and there and I’ve lost 10 pounds over the past 6 weeks. What?

Every day, I’m trying to be a little healthier than the last, and if I eat everything in a 5 mile radius during one meal, I try to get back on track for the next without mentally assaulting myself until I’m lying lifeless on a cold stone floor.

And I see now that a big part of this is realizing that I deserve health and attention and wellness and compassion (lord I sound like a fucking life coach), and tiny changes ultimately result in a new place entirely.

And that feels damn good.

So yeah, success. Or something. Fucking rock it.

Slightly more than yesterday.

Do you ever wish you could see yourself the way your kids do?

I fear what will materialize with perfect clarity as a lie on my deathbed. I wonder how I’ll reflect on the 36^th year of life.

The next and the next.

I don’t mean to me morbid. It’s not morbid. Morbid is wasting the one fucking chance we have at life. That’s just my belief, of course. Maybe we get a repeat. That’d be cool, but I’m not willing to risk it.

It usually takes years for my mind to change, but once it does, it feels sudden, jarring. Like a loud knock on a door I never knew existed.

I look over to see who it is and it’s a new truth sitting there like nothing ever happened. Like she’s always been there, chillin’, waiting for me to notice her.

I guess it’s just “getting older” and that’s that. I guess the pack of experiences grows deeper and wider and weirder and we have no choice but to see the world differently and it’s not strange or even interesting.

Except, well, it is.

A couple weeks ago, on the bi-annual date taken WHETHER WE NEED IT OR NOT, Mac and I struck up a conversation with a couple who was just like us: married, with kids, on a date.

Only they were about 60.

They gave us that familiar “I remember those days” look as we told them about our 4 young kids.

The couple was lovely. I liked them.

As they got up to leave while we were finishing our avocado chocolate mousse (which I am normally opposed to on principle because keep your fucking HEALTH FOOD OUT OF MY DESSERT THANKS, but this was delicious), the man looked at me and said: “It goes so fast. Hold onto this.”

I didn’t need to tell you that. You already knew that. You knew he said that because it’s the thing every older parent has said to every younger parent since the dawn of humanity.

I waited for my internal eye roll. The irritation. The IF IT GOES SO FAST WHY ARE THEY STILL HERE feeling. I waited for the old familiar Smile-And-Nod-out-of-politeness.

But it never came.

Instead I saw a flash of sadness in his eyes and knew it as my own. The pain in his voice that might as well have been mine. I felt commiseration. I felt the same. I felt life racing by my head again and powerless and a little stripped.

Later I thought “Well shit, I guess I’ve been around long enough now to see the ‘other side.'” Their side.

Then I banished the thought immediately because I AM TOO YOUNG FOR THIS SHIT.

Or something.

The pain, though, is merely a flash buried beneath a pile of gratefulness for the passing of time, that they’re all still here, that we’re still here to watch them be here.

But it’s there now. And it wasn’t before. Even when I started this blog it wasn’t there. I used to write about dropping my kids off at school and daycare and wanting to scream “FREEEEEEEDOMMMMMMMM!!!!” out the window. I only felt relief. Now I feel more.

There were so many years more to come. There were more kids to come. There was the possibility of more kids to come.

Last June, I had my last baby. In November my first baby turns 14.

I thought when I was 22 and had my first child that 18 years might as well be 90 years because it’s so many years. Shit, it was almost the number of years I had been on earth.

She was young. I was young. We were all young.

What I didn’t realize is that it isn’t the kid LEAVING that filets your heart, it’s the CHANGING and transition from little kid right here playing, to kid at arm’s reach, to kid in carpool without you, to beyond and beyond and that one day you realize that the movement is away, always, as it should be, but always away, and the closeness clarity and simplicity of the early years are over so fast it might as well be 90 days. 90 minutes. 90 fucking seconds.

When you talk about this with people they’ll sometimes say “Oh, well, I enjoyed EVERY phase and never got upset about my kids growing up.”

Well, you clearly love your kids more dearly than I do. Let me run out and make you a cookie with my bare hands and adoration.

OBVIOUSLY.

My point is not that new stages are not wonderful and exciting and dynamic and joyful. Can I tell how rad it is to sit down and have an intelligent, sarcastic banter with my tween? Or how amazing it feels to (legally, ahem) leave her with a sibling or two while I go to the freaking store? My oldest child feels like a dear friend now, sometimes. We laugh and laugh. It’s everything. It’s more than I ever could have imagined.

My point is that the wild abandon of your little one playing in the sand on a beach will not last forever and I, at least, feel a twinge of pain to know that stage has passed.

It’s the first time they refuse to hug you in the car before school.

It’s the first time you realize they’ve sat with you chatting on the blanket rather than played in the surf.

The first time they prefer their room, over you, to talk with friends.

The first time you realize they’re too big for this or that or the other thing and they’re in reality now rather than imaginary land.

The first time you realize that in less than 5 years your kid will be “full grown” (hahaha).

And in a little over 2 years she’ll be driving.

I don’t know when it happened, and it doesn’t feel like me, but every morning when I get Arlo out of his carseat to drop him off at the babysitter’s I damn near cry. Or I do cry. Not weeping. Just a tear or two.

He puts his head on my shoulder as if he knows.

I don’t know where the pain came from. I can’t even make sense of it. Because he’s my last? Because it’s too much time away? Because I’m old? Because I’m a sap now?

Maybe I’m just tired. Worn out? Depressed? Hormonal? Maybe it doesn’t feel worth it anymore. The time away.

Ah, fuck it.

Is this why they say that stuff about “wiser?” I sure hope not. I’m not wise. I’m just 14 years into parenthood and feeling the weight of my baby’s face on my shoulder and going to work anyway because it has to be done, and part of me wants to go, though in this second it seems I’d give anything to get back in the car and drive away with him.

Is this it? Is this what the “old people” are talking about?

My family right now feels so complete. Nobody can ever leave. It’s the six of us. It’s perfection. It’s whole and contained and just right. Soon one will leave, then the next and the next.

It will change. It will get better. It will get worse.

It will just get new.

But this day, this one won’t come again.

I feel that now, whether or not The Old Annoying People are telling me so.

I pat his back and kiss his little head, pass him into the arms of another. I wonder if she sees my tears.

I get in the car, drive away, and write to you. I’m not sure I know what else to do, today.

so many years here.

Dear Children,

There are four of you. I adore you all. I want the best for you. I want you to become the people you were meant to become.

And yet, I have never carved your sandwiches into the shape of trains.

Maybe you’ll never care. Maybe you’ll live your whole life without ever mumbling to yourself in the wee hours of a heartless morning “Where was MY baby carrot shaped into an owl with little raisins for eyes? WHAT ABOUT MY BENTO BOX?”

But just in case, I’d like to offer an explanation of what may appear a deficiency, and may in fact be a deficiency, but isn’t entirely without thought either way.

In short, I want you to eat the sandwich because it’s a sandwich, recognizing that as such it has merit all on its own, even if it isn’t round like the wheels on the bus. It has bread, maybe some meat, lettuce, mustard or mayonnaise. These things feed our bodies. Feeding our bodies is amazing. Cute sandwiches do not actually feed our bodies better than non-cute ones.

I want you to get used to this. I want you to eat the sandwich because it’s a motherfucking sandwich, not because it looks like a fish.

Eat the motherfucking sandwich because it’s a motherfucking SANDWICH.

Sorry.

Yeah, I know. I get it. It’s more fun to eat a sandwich that looks like a baby bear. That sounds fun to me too. I love small furry animals. But the thing is, nobody is going to make turkeys out of your cheese balls in your adult life. Nobody is going to make the boring yet necessary parts of life more compelling through Pinterest-inspired sculpting.

Someday you’ll have to sit in meetings while the office manager discusses for the 27^th time how everybody is putting the mail in the mail thing upside down and you’ll be like THIS DOES NOT MATTER HOW IS THIS MY LIFE MAYBE I COULD KILL ALL OF YOU but there will be no way out of it because you need the money and this is your job.

Nobody’s going to make the office manager’s speech more amusing by removing his clothes or putting a donkey headband on him or sticking him in a unicorn suit with the butt part removed.

Nobody’s going to have him discuss how long food should be in the refrigerator via haiku and interpretive dance.

Take a moment and imagine how rad that would be. But will it happen?

No. Never.

You get Boring As Fuck. You get office casual, large table, legal pads, old coffee and general malaise.

A Powerpoint. If you’re lucky. Probably without fun slide transitions.

Nobody cares if you’re entertained.

You get the square sandwich with stuff inside. Probably even with crust.

You see? The minute I start making food AMUSING is the minute you start expecting food to be amusing. Why the hell would I sign myself up for that shit? Get used to bananas as bananas not centipedes and apricots as apricots not clownfish. Why?

Because there are some things we do because they need to be done even though they may not be our favorite.

Like eating, for example.

Although, how is eating not your favorite? How is eating ALL THE THINGS not your favorite? What the fuck is wrong with you?

EAT THE MOTHERFUCKING SANDWICH.

Sorry, again. You know how I struggle with potty mouth.

Okay, are you with me so far? Carving sandwiches into cute fuzzy shit when you’re two is a slippery slope to “Oh, Johnny, you don’t like grapes? What if I turn them into a waterfall cascading into a large Brazilian swimming hole?”

“Oh, no celery? What if I make it into a lion eating a hyena but in our front yard? Wouldn’t you like a lion in the front yard? Lions are amazing! Lemme hear you roar!”

Well, that’s how it is in my brain, at least. I see myself getting pulled around by a tiny ass dictator shouting I ONLY EAT APPLES WITH THE WINGS OF GREAT BALD EAGLES and that terrifies me.

Y’all are annoying enough without demanding artistic enhancement of food items.

Or, I’m lazy.

That’s probably it to be honest. My goal each day is to get food INTO your bag. Its spot on the adorable spectrum is 3,000% not what I care about.

But hey, we all have our talents. I once told you I went to Julliard so many times you told your kindergarten teacher and she invited me to do a presentation at the school on singing and dance.

Tell me that shit isn’t better than a blackberry lamb with a kiwi sun.

That’s creative as fuck.

Anyway, I hope you have a nice life. I love you. I also love trains, baby bears, eagles and clownfish, but not in food form, unless it’s a party, and I’m not throwing it.

Eat the motherfucking sandwich.

Sincerely,

Mom

Although, remember that one time we made a rainbow cake to celebrate marriage equality? fucking NAILED it. Crafty as shit.

It was 12:30pm last Sunday in a liquor store. You stood in front of me at the checkout in a ruffled skirt and combat boots and tights. It was too hot for such a get-up. You’d probably been wearing it since Friday, when things were better.

Your hair was sticking out and frizzy around a few-day-old braid.

When you turned I saw tattoos along the side of your face. Your eyes were swollen and your face pale. The alcohol radiated off your body, smacked me into 7, 8, 9 years ago.

That sweet-stale reek. Cigarettes. Sweat.

“Can you give me a deal on a pint?”

Rot-gut whiskey. My kind of girl.

“No, sorry.” He offered a vague smile. I considered setting down my stuff because my arms were tired and achy against the cold drinks, but I didn’t want you to feel rushed. You had enough stress.

“Well give me a minute. You know I’m good for it. How much do I owe you?”

Your feigned cheerfulness made my heart damn near crack.

One dollar and 7 cents more for the rot-gut pint.

You dug in your bag and folds of your jacket and pulled a nickel or two from the plastic penny holder on the left. I used to do that. Saved me a few times too.

Seven cents short.

I opened my purse to grab you a dime when you said “Hold on!” and ran to the back of the store where you grabbed a dime on the ground. You placed it on the counter triumphantly.

“We’re good today, man!”

I was happy you didn’t have to take money from me. I was happy you got your pint without a front or a handout, and I was happy you could kill the shakes and in your head I knew you were thinking “I’ll be okay today” and I was glad that moment was happening for you though it won’t be enough, my friend.

It will never be enough.

There will never be enough.

You grabbed your whiskey and turned around, looked at me right in my eyeballs and said: “Any day now I’ll be back to my normal self.”

I gasped. Punched in the gut.

It was only your words. I nodded. I smiled. I couldn’t speak.

I watched you walk to your bike.

God dammit why did you say that to me?

Why?

Of all the people and things and moments in the world I stood behind you on just another alcoholic day in a liquor store and smelled your and my old smell and you spoke the saddest words maybe I’ve ever heard in my life and your watery eyes were mine again yet they were not. Because I’m free now.

Why?

I’m a stranger to you. A nobody. A nothing. When I was you I would have turned away from a woman like me, all clear-eyed in the midday with kids and shit.

Oh fuck you lady. Fuck you and your decent life.

(And then, in the throes of the morning, begging god to join you.)

I know you. The pain. The hope. The energy in the unopened bottle. The strength pulsing through the walls of the glass in your hand. Just this last pint. Just this one. I’m okay today. It’s okay.

Tomorrow I’ll pull it together.

And tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be me again.

Any day now. Any day now I’ll be myself again.

I wanted to stare at where you last stood and take in that moment. Instead I met eyes with the man behind the counter. Time to pay now. Time to go on. It felt weird, again, to be on the side of normalcy. It still feels weird after 6.5 years of sobriety.

Me and the dude at work. Me, buying water and red cups because my kid was sick and we had to drive home and I thought “Well this will hold puke.” Me, with my kids in the car. Me, tired from being up all night in a hotel room during a trip gone awry. Me, clear-headed, tired, frustrated with the day.

Me, lost in the web of the normal sober shit.

You buying a pint with scavenged change at 12:30 in the afternoon sure tomorrow will be different. You telling me you’re okay while you stink and waste away. You riding away in hope, until the shakes come again. Me pulling out my debit card and spending $9.00.

I used to grab pennies out of the plastic thing to buy pints. Ancient Age whiskey, a pack of Pall Malls, and a Coke if I had extra money. If I think really hard maybe I can remember the exact amount of those three items. The cost of okay. The cost of the day.

I’d dig in the folds of my car. Under rugs and in deeper and deeper spots as if I hadn’t looked there already. Sometimes he’d give me a pint on credit. But never the Pall Malls. He knew I’d be okay without those.

I always paid him back as soon as I could because I knew I’d need his help again.

After the first pull hit my gut I’d feel hope and the shakes would quiet and I’d know just like you tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow I’ll call my mom and get sober. I’ll get with my kids and work. I’ll call my dad. I’ll tell him. I’ll eat some good food and clean my car and above all I’ll never drink again.

Any day now I’ll be back to my normal self. Any moment. Maybe this moment.

Right after this pint.

I want to tell you lady that the most important word in that strange sentence was “self.” The word you can’t forget. The word you can’t let go of. You have one. It’s there. Buried beneath a few thousand years of separation and pain, or so it feels, but it’s still intact, on fire, alive, pulsing through the reek of shame and humiliation, the part of you who looked at the woman behind you in line and knew you were the same.

I’m still thinking of you now. A week later. I wish I would have bought you the pint. I wish I would have handed it to you and said before you could even speak “I see you.”

There is a better way.

There is another way.

“Any day I’ll be back to my normal self.”

I want to tell you that you will not. Not here. Not like this. I want to tell you come on over here. I want to tell you there is hope. I want to tell you you’re dying. I want to tell you don’t have to live this way anymore.

I want to tell you I see god in your cracked open eyes.

It’s been a week, and I still love you.

We went to Target recently and sure enough there were no signs indicating which toys were for boys and girls. Lemme tell you what happened because it was traumatic. Plus, I think I may be on the cusp of uncovering a major conspiracy.

First, my 5-year-old daughter got all confused about which aisle was her section because the Great Wall O’ Pink was so subtle she failed to notice it. You know how kids are. I had to steer her in the right direction but she still went to the science kits.

Lo and behold, next to those science kits was a DOLL.

As in, a baby doll.

Well, Target, this is some disturbing left-wing propaganda! Next thing you know she’ll start thinking she can be a mother AND a doctor. Thanks a lot. That will take a decent amount of work to undo.

No worries though. I gave her a stern talking to: “Honey, princesses don’t do science. Princesses study the humanities because they’re better equipped for sensitive artsy things like Jane Austen and feelings.”

Anywho, my son looked right at me and asked “WHERE ARE THE TOUGH TOYS?”

Growing obviously confused by the subpar signage, he too started wandering over to the doll area. Of courses I rapidly explained that he may not play with dolls because nobody likes nurturing males.

The whole point is to block boys from such things so they grow up with a clear idea of gendered work expectations. It bothers me that Target is now placing the reinforcement of heteronormativity and traditional masculinity more squarely on MY shoulders and I resent it.
As if I don’t have enough to do.

After he was safely set up with things that make loud sounds and kill things, my daughter started crying because she couldn’t find the fairy-themed-pastel Legos.

As you know, girls are unable to play with Legos made of primary colors. They try, but their minds are not built for that sort of thing. They end up confused. My girl got so upset I had to get down to her level and remind her of every Disney princess saved by a man. Nothing soothes a confused female brain like remembering she too may someday marry a wealthy white male with a large home and horse.

So my daughter is tearfully staring at red blue green and yellow, lost and afraid, demanding to know where the soft hues of pink and purple went, and I had no explanation for her because THE SIGN WASN’T THERE SO IT WAS HARD FOR ME TO TELL WHICH AISLE WE WERE IN.

Luckily I remember just in time to look for The Wall of Pink. Always look for the pink!

Safely back in the pastels, I realized my son had once again followed us. Normally I would point to the sign above my head that said “Girls’ Toys” but THERE WASN’T ONE so I had very little evidence to prove this aisle was off limits to him. Then I had a terrifying thought that stopped me in my tracks: what if my SON picks out the fairy themed Legos for himself?

Wait. Target. ARE YOU TRYING TO TURN OUR KIDS GAY?

That’s it, isn’t it? You are on a mission, probably funded by those fluffy-headed supporters of gay marriage, to turn all kids gay by forcing girls to play with Hulk (that buzz cut, remind anyone of butch lesbians? Coincidence? I THINK NOT.) and boys to play with FAIRIES.

Ahem, fairies?

I’m onto you. I know what’s happening here. You’re trying to get my girls to play with primary colors and my boys to strap on fairy wings in attempt to make them forget Jesus.

Jesus HATES FAIRY WINGS.

Was this Obama’s idea?

It was, wasn’t it?

Thanks, Obama.

I STAND WITH KIM DAVIS!

I also heard you let women breastfeed anywhere they want in your stores. Exhibitionist trashy weirdo slut store!

Off Target, Target.

Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah. Right. The degradation of America’s youth through left-wing propaganda involving toy aisles.

Maybe you think you’re being sly but I’m a damn sharp tool. I’m the sharpest tool in the shed. Nothing gets past me.

And let me make something clear: You won’t be ruining my kids any time soon. I’m going back to Walmart, a place with nice traditional values like gendered signs and worker exploitation.

I’m an AMERICAN. I have RIGHTS. Kim Davis! Jesus! Straight people!

Gendered toy aisles!

Target, you almost really messed us up.

But we’ll never surrender. The fight is real.

Eye of the tiger, America.

ALL GIRLS HATE CONSTRUCTION STUFF TARGET duh