Okay, that’s it. I’m officially unmotivated. What the hell happened? I was doing just fine. Well, mostly fine.

I’m never doing THAT FINE. I’m something of a disaster, most of the time. But I DISASTER WELL.

Disastering is one of my most reliable talents.

Does that ever happen to you? You’re going along with your life and it’s pretty cool when all of a sudden BOOM. Monotony. Boredom. It all feels worn out and tired and lost and weird and possibly, at 2am, utterly meaningless?

Or maybe I feel worn out and tired. One can never be sure.

I like to feel sorry for myself. It’s my special spot I love to hate. My therapist – who my friend and I (yes we oddly have the same one) lovingly refer to as The Jedi Ninja – says I like to beat myself up mentally. Something about shame.

So, she’s given me some affirmations. I’m supposed to say them. As in, to myself.

As she sat there across from me in her immaculate office smelling vaguely of peppermint and excessively healthy houseplants, I thought to myself “No way in hell am I going to spew nice little affirmations, lady. I LIKE MY PAIN.”

I’m not Stuart Fucking Smalley.

Jesus.

Come to think of it I’m not Jesus either.

But I started thinking about how after I yell at my kids I start a tape in my head: “Figures, Janelle. Of course you do that. You’re an asshole. And mean. A mean asshole. You’ve been that way forever. Remember when you were a kid? YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN A DICK.”

Or after I eat the 3^rd cookie because I “need something to pick me up,” a new tape starts: “Fat ass! Nasty human. What the fuck is wrong with you? Remember when you were SKINNY? Remember THAT? Oh you loser. You’ll never feel that good again. You’re disgusting.”

I’m good enough and I’m smart enough and doggone it people LIKE ME!

Oh, fuck you Stuart. Nobody likes you.

When I got sober, the person most pivotal in my recovery told me something profound. And I don’t mean sort of profound. I mean like SUPER FUCKING DEEP AND LIFE CHANGING.

Sit down, and listen. It goes like this: Nothing changes if nothing changes.

Whew. Yeah. I know.
Go ahead, Take a moment if you need it.

No no. Don’t turn away. That right there is some crazy shit: We have to physically, actually DO something different if we want new things to happen in our lives. WE CAN’T JUST THINK ABOUT CHANGING.

We have to move our feet in new directions. And our arms. And even our hands. ALL THE BODY PARTS. We have to move our bodies in completely new ways to make new shit happen in our lives.

As I write this I’m realizing this information is probably obvious to every adult on the planet.

Oh well. Whatever. I got sober at 30 and that thought had never occurred to me. I truly believed that if I THOUGHT something enough times it would happen.

I believed if I thought about something, it would change.

The fact that this never worked was insufficient evidence to deter my faith in the efficacy of Thinking About Doing.

(hahahahahahha!)

And that’s what’s up with these stupid mental tapes. I realized recently that some silly part of me seems to think that if I BEAT MYSELF UP enough times, my behavior will change under the weight of my wrath, or something.

Funny thing though: That never happens.

You know when I lost all that weight? When I started exercising and eating better. WHO WOULDA FUCKING THUNK IT?

Turns out self-hatred is a terrible calorie burner.

You know when I became a writer? When I started writing the words.

I know. I know. I’m a pile of wisdom.

Somebody build me an ashram.

Anyway, I’ve been trying the mental-bashing-routine for a few thousand years and it appears to have gotten me precisely nowhere, so I decided I’d give that old therapist a try.

So yesterday in the shower I started repeating the most ridiculous parental goodness affirmation I could think of: “I am a patient and loving and compassionate mother.”

I said it over and over again. Out loud.

I felt like a fucking moron.

Later, in the evening, I made a joke with my oldest kid. I did something nice then said “You know, I did that because I am a PATIENT and LOVING and COMPASSIONATE mother.” I exaggerated each word.

She smiled and said “I know.”

And I almost fell over. I am loving. And I am compassionate, but patience has never exactly been my um, thing. Actually no. Wait. I’m super fucking patient.

For 2 solid minutes.

TWO SOLID MINUTES folks. You can’t teach that.

It felt nice to hear my kid say that, though. It made me smile and I realized I’m probably not quite as bad as my brain would have me believe.

I don’t know. This has been a tough year. And just when I was in a bit of a groove I decided to take on a couple classes at a local university because I love this school and I love the professor who asked me but now I’m working 5 days instead of 3 and I’m no longer solely “self-employed” and I feel set back a bit, like I had a good thing going and “ruined it.”

And when I teach I have insomnia. It’s a thing. I must have a sleep-stress threshold past which my brain is all “fuck you and your desire for rest,” and apparently, teaching college crosses the threshold. And when I’m tired I lash out irrationally and lose it even more, and faster. I’m tired of Mac working out of town. I miss my baby. I’m sick of driving kids everywhere all fucking day forever into the night.

I AM A LOVING AND PATIENT AND COMPASSIONATE MOTHER.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure. Let’s affirm. I’m affirming my ass off.

Okay fine. It feels good to switch up the narrative a bit, even if I do think it’s bullshit. And I’m tired of the ridiculous brain punishment. That shit doesn’t work either. At least this is more pleasant, and vaguely amusing.

I am Stuart. Hear me roar.

Therapy hour with Janelle has come to an end. I gotta go pick my kids up from school.

With patience. Compassion. And love.
Ha. Ha. Ha.

Wait. I’m not done. My good friend told me the other day she just feels numb, like it’s all work. And I want her to know I feel the same. I feel the same sometimes, CL.

We get lost. We get found. We get bored. We get beat down until we change. We repeat the same same same until we throw our heads back and scream a new line.

Sometimes it’s “FUCK THISSSSSSSS!”

Sometimes it’s a ridiculous affirmation.

Our kid turns 10. The years seem stolen. Our oldest says she knows we’re patient and loving. We laugh cry silently.

We get a Jedi Ninja therapist we join a gym we get a kitten and name it Kimchi we pick up our kids we blast some music we miss our lifecrimepartner we make it one more day.

We write insane shit and remind ourselves “Doggonitpeoplelikeme!”

Until next time, whackos, I’m yours in the crazy.

He turned ten yesterday. She picked him out a bar of homemade soap with a rainbow on it. And she’s wearing a BIRD JUMPSUIT. Fuck it. It’s all good.

No.

Damn.

I can’t make it.

You tell us about it, teacher, how it’s a blast. How we should come. How we’ll love it. I need no convincing. I love pumpkin patches. I love the fall. Before the words have fully left your mouth I check…nope. Working that day.

I can’t not show up to work. Maybe I can get a sub. No, not really. I teach college. You can’t really just get a sub, or “call in sick.”

You’re still talking about how wonderful it is. The picture you paint makes my gut hurt and face smile. I see my kindergartener on the train ride, scaling the haystack, picking out the perfect pumpkin. I tell myself “We’ll go as a family. We always do.”

I tell myself it will be just as good. My heart sinks just the same.

I see her there with other parents. I see them with their phones, taking pictures. Maybe my kid will be in the frame, in the background. Along the sidelines of the frame, near yours who sits front and center.

I wonder if she’ll wish her mom were there. Let’s be honest, there’s no way she’ll even notice. She’ll be having a great time, as she should.

I know that, yet I kinda wan to quit anyway.

In the 4^th grade classroom they’re going to the Maidu museum. Oh, it’s amazing! The other moms coo.

Damn! Wednesday. I teach that day too. He’s almost 10. He wouldn’t let me hug him the other day before school. He’s getting so big. Oh, lord I want to go. To not miss out. I think of the twinkle in his eye if I could tell him “Hey! I’m going with you on the field trip!”

He’s not too big for that.

I was never the kid who’s mom worked in the classroom, drove the kids on field trips, manned the carpool. My mom was busy making a living to keep us alive. I didn’t feel deprived. I didn’t feel resentful. I was elated to see her at the end of the day. Period.

And she was always there. Our dinners were heaven around the little table. I’d crawl into her bed when I needed it. She never said “no.”

On the weekends she took us on impromptu camping trips and to the beach and made us hot dogs in the fog while the ocean roared behind us and I knew it was right in the world because she was there.

She was always there.

No, not always. Not at school.

But everywhere else she circled me like sunlight.

And I knew it. I felt it, no matter where I was.

I tell myself it’s the same with my kids. I know in my heart it’s true. I don’t remember a single incident of sitting at school wondering “WHERE’S MY MOM?” I was just glad we were on the damn field trip I the first place.

The mom who can’t come. The mom who isn’t on the trip. The mom who works.

Sometimes I can come now. I have a little more flexibility.

Some don’t.

Some can’t come at all, ever.

I see you.

I hear you.

I know what it feels like to be the mom showing up in work clothes 20 minutes late to Back-to-School night, scanning the list of meetings and events and assemblies and this and that and “You should come” and “Volunteer please” and every one at 9am 10am 3pm and the sinking reality of you aren’t going.

You talk to your child, pick the most important. You can make it to one, I’m sure. The boss will give you the time off. Maybe you’ll just lie. The pumpkin patch is not a business priority. Odd.

I don’t want to go to all. Screw that. I’ll leave that to the helicopters. But I’d like to make it to a few, and volunteer a few times. I’d like that, you know?

I know what it feels like to sit torn in two. I HATE THE PTA I SHOULD JOIN THE PTA I WANT TO WORK I HATE WORKING I NEED TO WORK MAYBE I CAN CUT EXPENSES I LOVE HATE MY CAREER DO I EVEN HAVE A CAREER I NEED SOME INCOME WHY IS CHILDCARE SO EXPENSIVE WHERE DO I FIT IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING PICTURE?

A million questions theories scenarios reasons feelings but fuck all that.

I just want to talk about the 45 seconds when you realize you can’t make it to the pumpkin patch field trip and wonder for a second what the hell you’re doing and what she’ll think or won’t think and how your mom was there or not and how it was and is and will be okay, even when it’s kind of not.

You and me. We can’t make it together.

You and me. We’ll make it together.

And so will they.

they’re fine. we’re crazy. it’s all as it should be.

*******

Join me for my last writing workshop of 2015.

There are only 5 spots left. We’ll have a hell of a time getting to know each other.

Let’s do this.

You are the person who thinks it’s “no big deal” that some young men hang banners from the balconies of their frat house with the words: “Freshman daughter drop off,” “Rowdy and Fun. Hope your baby girl is ready for a good time,” and “Go ahead and drop off mom too.”

It’s hard to believe you still exist, in 2015.

I want to rant and rave at you. I want to call you names and insult your intelligence and tell you to fuck right off a thousand ways. You support a culture that views women as objects to be consumed and taken at will.

You support a culture of rape.

And you do it openly. And you say it’s just your “opinion” as if it is that innocuous.

I fucking hate you.

But my hatred does nothing. So instead, I’ll just talk to you.

Let’s break down the messages of these banners. Translate them. Make explicit the implicit.

“Freshman daughter drop off:” The person you have raised and protected and adored as a child needs to be deposited into our hands so we can take over your role as parent and do with her what we will, which is have sex with her. We want to take advantage of her insecurity as a new student and attempt to play on her vulnerability.

You think I’m going too far? I’m not. They call her “daughter.” Ownership. Not even an autonomous human being. Somebody’s daughter. Somebody’s child. “Freshman:” New, young, nervous, unsure.

“Rowdy and fun. Hope your baby girl is ready for a good time.” More direct, same message. Baby girl. Reduced to infantile. Reduced to pure vulnerability. Purity. Perceived virginity. Don’t fucking tell me I’m reading too much into this: WHAT IS A BABY GIRL IF NOT AN INNOCENT VIRGIN?

About to be violated. STILL NOT ADDRESSING THE ACTUAL HUMAN BEING.

Still not addressing THE YOUNG WOMAN IN QUESTION who may or may not want to have sex with a dude or 2 or 6 but that is not the point is it?

They’re writing to the parents. They’re not writing to her. They don’t give a shit about her. Her sexuality is a non-issue. Her desires are irrelevant. Her body is not her own.

SHE IS A NON-ISSUE.

SHE IS IRRELEVANT.

The only people who matter are the parents, the ones who blocked them from getting to her vagina.

“Go ahead and drop off mom too:” Hell, we don’t care. We’ll fuck any warm body. Even if she’s old and gross, because we all know that’s what older women are.

We’ll fuck your baby girl and your wife. Two objects you own that we want.

These messages reduce women to bodies to be passed off between men: dads and husbands to frat boys.

These messages reduce women to THINGS to be TRADED between men.

Do I think these boys are posting these messages with full awareness of the what they’re saying? Maybe. Put probably not. They’re probably too fucking dumb for that. THEY ARE ABSORBING THE CULTURE AROUND THEM. THEY ARE ABSORBING THE CULTURE YOU ARE SUPPORTING EVERY TIME YOU SAY

You’re overly sensitive.

These are just boys being boys.

Young college boys are horny.

They’re just having fun.

Meanwhile, girls are raped.

Meanwhile, boys are growing up thinking this is what being a man means.

Meanwhile, our sons are reduced to douchebag morons with penises that blur humanity.

Meanwhile, our daughters are reduced to available or unavailable vaginas.

Meanwhile, our daughters are on the ground with a boot on their neck, choking under the power of a patriarchy that protects or consumes them, but never lets them breathe.

We buy a onesie that says “Daddy’s little princess.”

We buy a onesie that says “Lock your daughters up.”

We buy heels for our 3-year-old. She can’t run at the park anymore.

We put her in skirts and tell her to close her legs. They’ll see your panties!

Somebody’s older brother touched her. “Boys will be boys. He’s just exploring.”

She says nothing the 2^nd time. The third the fourth the fifth.

We tell her to adhere to dress codes. Don’t show too much leg. That belly. Shame!

We tell her to buy some pepper spray.

We tell her not to get drunk.

Boys will be boys you know they are just having fun they can’t help themselves the power of their dicks is just too much LOOK AT THOSE PROMISING FOOTBALL CAREERS.

You want sex? No don’t have sex you’ll be a slut and nobody likes a slut be clean be good be respectable you can do anything YOU ARE DADDY’S LITTLE PRINCESS.

“Drop your baby girl off here.”

We’ve got it. We’ll take care of you now, little princess.

She shouldn’t have done that keg stand.

She shouldn’t have worn that skirt.

She shouldn’t have gone upstairs.

She shouldn’t have walked alone.

She shouldn’t have driven.

She shouldn’t have been born.

It’s no big deal.

You’re being too sensitive.

He was just horny.

He was just having fun.

Welcome to college, princess. Welcome to the world.

Ah shit, drop her mom off too.

The trolls of the internet got together  (in my head) and wrote a helpful handy guide. If you are unclear what a “troll” is, I give you this definition: The most annoying commenters in the world; people who make it their mission to enrage and insult while simultaneously ignoring the point. They appear on every comment thread. Anywhere. No matter what. You can run, but you can’t hide.

Luckily though they are easy to spot because THEY ALL THINK THE SAME WAY.

Anyway, I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want a list such as the one below, but Service to Nobody is what being a troll is all about. Plus, I have a fucked-up sense of humor.

So here you go.

A Troll’s Guide to the Internet (Or, How to Get Everyone on the Interwebz to Hate You):

1. If somebody writes about an experience you haven’t had it’s because they think your life is a lie.
2. And you, you are A LIAR.
3. If somebody writes about an experience you have had but feels differently about it it’s because they think your feelings are bad.
4. If you are not the intended audience it’s because the writer hates you.
5. Generally speaking, if you can’t relate to something, it is a pointed attack on you, your intelligence, and your life, and the only thing to do is call the writer a cunt.
6. Or fat. Or a fat cunt. You could also mention beating them with a uterus.* Anywho.
7. If a writer doesn’t validate, include, speak to and/or make warm and cuddly every type of human on the planet, the writer hates them too, and you should point out each and every type of human the writer has omitted. Unless you don’t like them either. Then it’s okay.
8. The title alone is sufficient data to formulate an opinion and share it widely.
9. When in doubt, attack grammar or reference Jesus.
10. If you read it in a meme, it is true.
11. If you find one study backing your opinion, even if it was conducted at Burning Man, you are correct. Beat people with this (it’s firmer than uteri).
12. If somebody is struggling with something you are good at, he or she is a deeply flawed human and needs your guidance.
13. If somebody is good at something you’re struggling with, he or she is BLATANTLY ATTACKING YOUR WAY OF LIFE.
14. Along these lines, a single piece of writing is sufficient information to critique, analyze, deconstruct and rebuild a stranger’s life.
15. You should do that a lot because people like it.
16. If you suspect however that this person may NOT like your extensive unsolicited unsupported misguided opinions (weird), preface your analysis by explaining your Earnest Desire to be Helpful.
17. Everybody likes helpful people.
18. Or say something about “playing devil’s advocate.” People dig that too.
19. A reader should not be required to engage in the complexities of reading such as comprehending tone, voice, rhetorical cues or even the publication’s tagline that reads: “A satirical news source.” NO! If the writer fails to use “irony punctuation,” which is definitely a thing because I saw it in a meme last July, they are not being clear.
20. Invent things at random (e.g. “irony punctuation”).
21. Whenever possible, argue against something by inadvertently being an example of it. This is not easy. You will have to work hard at this. Few people are born with this level of cyclical logic and total lack of self-awareness. One must strive daily.
22. If the writer is a woman, talk about whether or not you’d like to have sex with her.
23. If the writer is a person of color, mention “race card” often and how you have black friends, NO MATTER WHAT THE TOPIC.
24. Lie often.
25. Steal souls.
26. Ignore reason. And the topic at hand.
27. Never use your actual name and never, ever give up on a comment thread. Always come back. Always, always come back and bring your friends from Reddit.

Remember, young troll, above all else:

They are vast, and they’re waiting for you.

Go get em, tiger!

*The uterus thing actually happened. Wish I kept the screenshot. 

*****

Join me for my last writing workshop of 2015. Session 1 is sold out. Session 2 is half full. Get on it. Let’s hang out. Let’s write.

WRITE THE WORDS, non-troll.

I’ll never feel “just right” as a mother. That’s what I’ve learned. No matter what I do, a piece of me will wonder about the other side, the other choice. I’ll crave it a little, yearn for it a little, lie down at night and wish for it, a little.

I’ll wake up in the morning and go on with my day anyway.

I’ll wake up and get dressed and go to my office and write. It will feel right. I will feel refreshed to be out of the house and alone, invigorated to be doing the work in my gut, trying, bringing our finances to a more comfortable level.

“When I grow up I want to be a writer like you, mama.”

Ha. George thinks I’m a writer. Of course she also has a fake friend named “Carrot” (who’s also a giant), but her declaration makes me smile all the same.

I get home from work and Mac has taken the kids to swimming lessons. I bring home Mexican food but we miss each other. I eat alone and leave again to work with women alcoholics.

When I get home, Arlo is already asleep.

My breasts and arms crave him. I’m a little irritated at Mac for putting him to bed, which is insane, and I know it. It’s not him it’s me. It’s the sadness, my choices and non-choices, the guilt and stab at my heart. The not right. The just not quite right.

“But I have to nurse him!”

“I’m sure he’ll wake up for a little nursing, Janelle.” Mac is right.

I lie beside my babe and pull him close and he nurses instinctually, eyes closed, wide open mouth like a little bird. We settle down near each other as we have since he was a newborn, in the same bed, and I kiss and smell him over and over again like a starving person who just found food.

I physically crave my baby.

I physically ache for him.

I imagine this is the ache that drags bereaved mothers to the brink of insanity. Hair-pulling batshit total delusion insanity. Because if that craving could not be satisfied…my God. I think of my friend Kim.

Three days a week, from 9am until 4pm. That’s how long I’m gone. It’s not long. I used to work more. Some moms work 50, 60 hours a week.

Some evenings I’m gone too, but I’ll be gone a lot more than 3 days a week if I start drinking again.

I know these things, all of them, and yet at the close of the day I think of my first baby turning 14 in a few months and last summer, when I was home all the time with them and we went to the library every day with new tiny creation Arlo and how Ava mentioned it as the best summer and how this summer we’ve only gone once. To the library, that is. We swam on Sunday together as a family and Ava played with her siblings. I wonder how much longer she’ll do that.

When I think about it like that I curse every moment I’m gone and want back. BACK HOME. Back with them.

Yesterday though I met with a filmmaker who’s working with me to write my first screenplay and when she and I are talking I feel an energy vibrating through us and I think there’s no way I would survive without finding out what the words will say.

Now, and in 20 years.

I can’t quit silent.

From the outside it looks sometimes like women are secure and clear in their choices or non-choices. For better or worse, it appears black and white.

I want my kids to see an independent mother.

I want my kids to see a mother at home.

I want my kids to see a professional mother.

I hate staying at home.

 I hate working.  

I work because I have no choice.

I stay home because I have no choice.

For me, it’s all gray. (Maybe it’s gray for all of us, deep down.) I work because I have to and mostly want to, but I also know if we seriously down-sized I wouldn’t “have to” anymore. But I don’t want that either. I’m never “sure.” I’m never not regretting, sometimes. I’m never just right.

Maybe you’re the same.

I see you.

And here’s what I want to tell you: Maybe not just right can actually be “just right” and life can roll on okay with us over here flailing a little back and forth, acutely aware of how little we know, and how much we’ll never be clear how to be, exactly. And what’s “best,” always.

Maybe this is it. The clarity and the best.

Maybe I can be grateful for my life, my choices my words my home my breath my kids and husband and trust that this is enough.

I think this is it. I think I can relax in the gray and be here now, in my office writing to you.

And home in a couple hours, wondering what the fuck happened to the kids’ room.

And sitting down to play the sorting house with Arlo because 9am to 4pm is an awful long time when I walk in the door and he comes toddling so fast his tiny legs blur like the side of me that will walk out again tomorrow.

You know, because I called Ava yesterday while she was visiting her grandparents and asked how she was keeping herself entertained. She responded “looking at feminist posts on Instagram.” And I thought well that’s pretty rad since there are a few thousand other things a 13-year-old could be looking at with her smartphone and Rocket read his fortune the other day in the Chinese restaurant by himself without even a lick of fear and George, well she wants to be a writer now and Carrot is doing just fine,

and Arlo will wake up for a little nursing.

He’ll find me again, even with his eyes closed, in the gray of evening when we can’t see a thing.

Somehow still here, just right.