1. So I’m sitting here at Millennium Park in Chicago. I came here a few days ago for the biggest blogging conference in the world. Blogher. I heard mixed reviews before I went. Some told me it was a giant sorority party, and I wouldn’t be invited to any of the parties. Others told me it was fun but I wouldn’t learn anything. People told me I absolutely had to go if I ever wanted to network and grow my blog. Other people told me it was the biggest waste of time ever.
2. I’ll tell you what it’s been for me: exactly what everybody said it was. All of them. Parts of it were a waste of time. I went to a session presented by people who clearly just wanted to plaster “spoke at Blogher” on their blogs. Very little preparation, nothing of substance to say. I’m 90% sure one of them said “you must dream out of the box.”  At that point, of course, in the interest of survival, I turned off my brain and started Facebooking. Not that I Facebook without a brain. OR DO I?
3. On the other hand, I attended a couple sessions that opened my eyes to whole new areas of publications and possibility, and inspired me.
4. One of the keynote speakers said to get girls more interested in science and tech we need to make it “sexy and cool,” at which point I almost jumped on the stage and kicked her ass. Some dude keynote said “behind every successful man in social media is a woman” and I wanted to dropkick his face, I mean COME THE FUCK ON, what? Right. Because ladies are such “social butterflies,” clearly we’ve got that social crap dialed! Vomit. But one of the other keynotes was the female producer of “The Walking Dead” who said it was impossible to be both “liked” and “respected” as a female boss. For obvious reasons I loved the shit outta her. I don’t even know if I agree. I’m just happy when any woman will admit she doesn’t give a shit about being liked. It’s just so anti-social! Boom.
5. I rode in the shuttle from the airport with 3 women armed with spreadsheets and perfect hair who spoke endlessly of private parties, none of which I’d heard of. All I felt was relief. Thank god I don’t have to decline those invites. I die at shit like that.

(Okay I’m not in Chicago any more. I’m sitting in my bed, finishing this post, so let’s start with new numbers, TO LIVE ON THE EDGE.) God I’m pathetic.

1. But here’s what happened that made this trip fucking amazing: I met my people who I didn’t know were my people. I met Stephanie and Momma be Thy Name (who I knew was my people via writing but we’d never met) and the infinitely delightful Colleen at The Family Pants (who is like the karaoke god, apparently). I met the lovely Lea from Becoming Supermommy. I met the wicked smart badass Grace Biskie, who is trying to reframe Christian discussions of race and racial reconciliation. And I met Mary Bowers, a freaking great writer and my new soulmate, who you can read here and here, who I may or may not begin to stalk.
2. I met people who are doing things and saying things that are worth saying. And that’s fucking awesome, right?
3. And on Sunday, I got to hang out in Chicago by myself. Like ALL BY MYSELF. As if hanging out in a hotel room by myself for three nights, in a bed with nobody but me, in a hotel room with nobody but me, wasn’t rad enough, I spent a day in Chicago just hanging out. I took the train through the city and it was the first time I’d done that since I was a college student in Spain.
4. And as I was sitting there cruising through the new city, taking in all the buildings and people and signs, it occurred to me how many years I’ve spent wishing I could go back to that place, wishing I could go back to the days when I hung out in cities across Europe, untethered, smoking cigarettes with new and old friends in cafés, feeling all Hemingway-esque and shit.
5. And as I sat in the park in Chicago and walked around, by myself, though I wasn’t smoking cigarettes or drinking wine in cafes, and I wasn’t 22 and pretty and untethered, I was exploring a new place, and it was just as fun and exhilarating as before, only now, I was thinking of my family. I was thinking of my husband and how I wished he was there to see the crazy no-ketchup sign. I thought about how much Ava would love to see the old Chicago library. I knew Rocket would flip out looking at The Bean. And Georgie, well she would make friends with half the damn city, bringing all that crazy light and love like she always does, my “big boy.”

And so I realized: I’ve spent ten years wishing to go back to a place that was half of what I’ve got now.

I spent ten years filling the time with nostalgia, when the fact is my life is fuller and brighter and infinitely more interesting than it ever was before.

It’s strange the way we’re set free all the sudden, from the shit holding us back and down, if we’re willing to see the truth, and all the ways we’ve been wrong.

Dirty Harry would be so proud…”To me you’re nothin’ but dogshit, you understand? You know what makes me really sick to my stomach?….watching your face with those hot dogs. Nobody, I mean NOBODY puts ketchup on a hot dog.”

clouds in the sky and clouds in the bean

I sat and watched kids play in this water for at least an hour. best fountain ever.

Oh, yeah. And Georgia turned 3 on Monday August 5.

I’ll be okay. I’m okay. I’m totally fucking okay people so stop asking.

Ah, child.

My best friends threw her a “Big Boy Monster Truck Dinosaur Party,” because those are the things she loves the most and I have the best friends in the entire world. I mean it people. The Best.

These are the friends. THESE ARE THEM. From the left: Katie, then me (notice I’m the only one behaving in this photo? yeah. proof miracles happen).; then Cara Lyn, then Johannah and her baby Josie.

Not gonna lie, we’re pretty gangsta.

Wait. WHAT? This can’t be real.

Big Boy Monster Truck Dinosaur Party, for the little Georgie

We went to the zoo on Georgie’s actual birthday

And we took this later that night, at her “family” party, in the house where she was literally born, and turned 1 and 2 and 3…love you, baby.

Also, p.s. I kind of got away from writing these “week in review” posts, but I’m going to start writing them again. I didn’t mean to stop writing them…it just sort of happened as I sort out writing for other websites, etc. (Look: When I say I’m disorganized and barely pulling shit off, I’M NOT JOKING.)

with all kinds of love,

Janelle

When I was a kid, I used to say I was going to wait until I was 30 to get married. Then, a couple years later, I was going to have a kid or two, when I was all mature and stable and shit.

As you know, like most of my plans, that didn’t go well. I had a kid at 21 with a dude I had known for 3 months. Score!

So I realize my perspective may skew my understanding of the idea of “planning for a child,” or “waiting until you’re ready,” but I have to say, I find the whole process of “waiting until you’re ready” to be one of the most ridiculous endeavors ever invented, mostly because it’s an impossible task, and creates the horribly misguided idea that one can actually “prepare” for parenthood, or “become ready” for something that inherently negates any possibility of preparation because it involves a real live human baby.

It’s absolutely ridiculous. When was the last time you met a predictable human?

(Your mother DOES NOT COUNT.)

I’m not saying every 16-year-old should have a kid, or people without jobs or homes should be reproducing at random and hoping for the best. UM DUH. That’s way too much work. For them and for us.

What I’m saying is this: If you want a baby for real but you’re not doing it because you think a better time will come, let me be the first to tell you: THE TIME WILL NEVER COME.

You will never have enough money.

You will never have a stable enough marriage.

You will never feel grown-up enough to serve as the guiding light of hope and direction to a small innocent child who’s insane enough to think the sun rises and sets over your pert little ass.

Speaking of pert little asses, you will never be ready for pregnancy.

That’s a LIE! You’re ready now! Your weeping uterus is probably all “I must have baby,” which is precisely why you’re in this predicament in the first place.

But you won’t be ready to piss on yourself and do that throw-your-legs-over-the-edge-of-the-bed thing when you’re 8 months pregnant and need to get up for the 12^th time that night, to pee, and your partner’s next to you snoring, undisturbed, and you’re like “Maybe if I smothered him nobody would notice?”

You won’t be ready to not see your toes for a couple months, or the look in your partner’s eyes as your boobs expand like porn balloons. Do those exist? Whatever.

You won’t be ready for the day you can’t buckle your own goddamn sandals anymore.

And friends, you won’t be ready for the body contortions and noises that resonate from the depths of earth and your soul as you push a baby out of a barely participating vagina.

You will never feel “good enough.”

When you meet that baby, you will no longer suspect you aren’t good enough. You will KNOW IT, because how could anything be good enough for the first perfect creature ever born? (Incidentally, that whole “perfect creature” thing will totally disintegrate by age 2, but I digress.)

Your ducks may be all lined up now, honey, but they’ll fly like feathers in a tornado the day that baby enters your world. Try. Give it a shot. Try to wedge that newborn into YOUR schedule and parenthood into YOUR vision of “the way it should be” or “the way I intended it to pan out.” Try to mold your kid into just what you had in mind and your partner into the perfect other parent, and you, chip away at yourself until you carve yourself into The Perfect Mama.

And then find yourself some whiskey, benzodiazepines, and a good shrink, cause you’re GONNA NEED THEM.

Do I sound negative?

Good. I am.

I feel like there’s a lot of misconception about child-rearing, much of it arising from bullshit societal notions that:

a.)    Having kids is fulfilling. It’s not. Becoming a whole person and being true to yourself is fulfilling. Kids only serve as a substitute for self-fulfillment for people who haven’t figured that out yet. There’s a line in a Margaret Atwood book (The Handmaid’s Tale?) where this girl says to her mother: “I am not justification for your existence.” BOOM.

b.)    Having kids is noble. Nope. Not noble. Just reproductive. Saving kids from a burning building? That’s fucking noble.

c.)     Everybody wants kids, or should want kids, and if they don’t want kids they’re a self-centered asshole. The only people who “should” have kids are the people who WANT THEM. How is that complicated? Personally, some of the people I know who have chosen not to have children have done so because they are TOO SELFLESS to bring a kid into what they believed was not the best situation. Self-centered? Nooooo. You know what’s self-centered? Bringing a kid or 12 into the world and then acting like you did THEM a favor by birthing them, like you’re some sort of martyr for a choice you made. Though I feel sorry for myself on occasion just like the best of ‘em, my kids don’t owe me shit and neither does the rest of the world. I’m not special and neither are childless people. Wait, hold on…gimme a minute….okay here we go…

“You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We’re all part of the same compost heap. We’re all singing, all dancing crap of the world.”

d.)    People without kids are missing out on a life with depth and meaning. Well, I guess that depends on how you define “depth and meaning,” but as far as I can tell, a life of depth and meaning is that which a person defines as “deep” and “meaningful.” And parenthood, of all the fucking endeavors of the world, is not inherently “deep” and “meaningful.” In fact, it appears some parents are actually detracting from the good of the world by reproducing. It’s as if they’ve gone out of their way to REMOVE depth and meaning from parenthood. Wait. Sorry. Was that my outside voice? MY BAD.

e.)    A kid is this thing you add to your existing life. Now this one’s gonna get me in trouble, but check it out: You don’t ADD a kid to your life like some sort of really expensive accessory. A kid transforms your life into an entirely new life, whether or not you are participating in this transition. [If you’re confused as to why this will get me in trouble, I’ll tell ya: People, guided by companies making A LOT OF MONEY off the idea, have convinced themselves parenthood is something that can be predicted, controlled and navigated in pleasant ways if you only buy, read, and do the right things. What are the “right things?” The idea that parenthood is a giant shit-storm of ever-shifting ground (LIKE THE REST OF LIFE) terrifies people, so they get really mad when you say things that threaten their fragile construction of security.]

And so, here it is, my dear friends waiting for the day…talking talking talking about kids, and waiting for that glorious moment when all the stars align perfectly and there’s just not a single thing left undone: All the places have been visited, all youth expired, the pinnacle of marital felicity reached along with a near-Yogi state of self-awareness, calm, patience. You’re in the best health of your life. Your 401k has hit $200,000 and your house is half paid off. Your car has an oil change and your diet is totally organic.

Here’s the thing…you can keep waiting, or you can realize the kid you have will be the perfect kid for the mess of your life. The perfect little crazy being to fit like a glove over the glaring deficiencies you were sure would ruin you. Not to fix you. But to hang out with you, just as you are, if you let him in and drop the fucking act. Just BE who you are and see you had everything you needed already, and maybe you were always “ready,” or as ready as you’ll ever be, for this kid, the perfect one for your family.

When I was pregnant, my midwife used to tell me I was the perfect mother for this baby. I believe that to be true, though please don’t ask me to ever raise somebody else’s baby. My kids have grown accustomed to my insanity, THANKYOUVERYMUCH.

Like the missing piece you never knew was missing, your kid will just lock in and lock on and turn you into the human you had no idea you could become. And yet you’ll remain exactly the same, cause you are only you, after all, and your job is to love and support and teach until the day you let go again.

And no, you won’t be ready for that either. I sure as hell am not.

But if you want it, the universe is telling you: You’re already perfect for the kid you’re waiting for.

You’re a disaster. You will remain a disaster after your kid comes.

Together you will be disasters, together.

But you’ll be in love, and it’ll be alright, and maybe one day you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about.

I mean it is, after all, just a real live human being.

So today is the first day of “Breastfeeding Awareness Month.”

As I was thinking about that, I started thinking that there’s a time to be reasonable and thoughtful and understanding. There’s a time for conversation and negotiation and peaceful discussion.

There’s a time to talk about things like adults, listen intently to both sides, sit across from one another to calmly discuss viewpoints.

But there’s also a time to whip your fucking tits out and talk about it later.

Or never.

Ladies and gentleman, we have blown past the moment of discussion. We have no choice but to move into full frontal nudity.

Oh wait that’s right. Breastfeeding isn’t full frontal nudity. So maybe that’s not the best approach.

Whatever. You know when I nurse my babies I generally go in from the top. And if my breast flesh offends you, well then sweetheart, you are my reason for doing it again and again and again and again until eventually, maybe after the millionth time you and your kind have seen it, it won’t quite shock you anymore.

Yeah, I’m talking to you, people who think women shouldn’t breastfeed in public.

I’m talking to you, people who think women should use a cover.

But I’m tired of discussing. I’m tired of the back-and-forth convos with misogynistic douchebags with their heads shoved so far up their asses they can’t tell the difference between breastmilk and whiskey.

So anyway, during the month of August, donned Breastfeeding Awareness Month by the U.S. Health & Human services, we’re supposed to “raise awareness” of the benefits of breastfeeding to increase breastfeeding rates and help Americans becomes more accepting of breastfeeding women.

But as far as I can tell, most people agree that “breast is best.” Or maybe it’s not “best” for everybody, but most people can agree that it’s damn good. It’s where that breast can occur that’s still, somehow, up for debate, and that is where the “awareness” needs to rise. The “awareness” of why women should be able to breastfeed in public wherever, however and whenever they damn well please is “the question.”

But really, the only people who need their awareness raised need their intelligence raised.

Logic, people. Give it a shot:

You say it’s about “modesty” and “self-respect.” LIES, motherfucker, LIES.

If that were true you’d be losing your shit over the thousands of scantily clad sex objects plastered all over television and magazines. And yet, you are oddly quiet on the subject.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME SOME WOMAN WAS THROWN OUT OF A RESTAURANT FOR WEARING A SHIRT TOO LOW?

Or those shorts that allow butt cheeks to peek out the bottom?

So your argument is false. It is not that you have a problem with breasts being exposed. Rather, you have a problem with breasts being exposed for a purpose other than the sexual satisfaction of men. If you would just THINK for like two seconds you’d see that nobody loses their shit over the widespread use of women’s bodies as pieces of meat for the consumption of men. It is only when that body becomes the woman’s and her baby’s, ALONE, that she somehow becomes “offensive.”

What’s offensive is not the breasts being exposed, it’s the breasts being exposed for a purpose other than the enjoyment of the patriarchy.

It’s the BIOLOGY of it that kills you.

It’s the primal femininity of it.

It’s that the breast becomes a vehicle for child’s nutrition as opposed to patriarchal pleasure, and this violates the misogynistic social contract you’ve signed. Yeah, you know, the one women have been battling against for 150 years?

Yeah that one.

I’m talking to you, women on BabyCenter and reddit and wherever your breed of idiot hangs out, ranting about women nursing in public and how they’re “disgusting” and “immodest” and “making a production.” (Well, you are right. Some of us are in fact “making a production,” but most American women are just nursing because their kid needs to, um, nurse.)

Do you know you’re spewing the ancient Puritanical crap you’ve been fed by a twisted society? You think you’re thinking for yourself, but you’re not. You are merely regurgitating the messages you’ve been fed, like a brain-dead sheep, programmed to see yourself and all women through the eyes of a society that commodifies them and their bodies.

You say it’s a “private act” like using the bathroom. Really, that’s weird. I’m 99% sure neither urine nor shit have ever come out of my nipples.

And we are feeding babies. As in, food. Eating. Consumption. Is your lunch private? Is bottle-feeding private?

No. Well then, exactly.

You say it involves a breast and breasts are sexual, like the vagina or penis…and we sure don’t whip those fuckers out at random!

First of all, read the above regarding patriarchy and sex. Secondly, breasts are only “sexual” because our society has made them so. They should be treated like an elbow or a knee or a thigh. If YOU see them as something else, more power to you, but you can’t expect the rest of us to cater to your ignorance. Breasts are not actually attached to women solely to serve the erotic interests of men. Just like the vagina, they serve a biological purpose! It’s called “feed the offspring!”

Basically, though I’m clearly ranting (and damn does it feel good), I genuinely believe the only way to change this conversation  is to shove our boobs in the faces of these idiots so many times it becomes normal to them.

(I’m speaking metaphorically, people. If you actually shove your breast in the face of a stranger there’s a good chance you’ll get arrested. Or a marriage proposal. But probably arrested. Word to the wise, baby. You know I’m always lookin’ out for ya.)

Or, their kids at least. (Which reminds me of the weirdest argument of all: Kids shouldn’t see women nursing. Okay just take a moment and realize how insane that is. Kids shouldn’t “see” the way kids have been fed since the beginning of time.)

Maybe I sound crass, irrational. Out of control and unreasonable.

Yes, well. I am.

There is a point at which conversation dies and only action speaks. There is a time when you’ve just got to do the thing they’re telling you not to do.

I’m so tired of the women getting kicked out of pools and restaurants. I’m so tired of new mothers absolutely distraught because they can’t figure out how to avoid nursing in public. I’m sick of women feeling like they’re “exposing themselves” when their baby needs to nurse.

I’m sick of women nursing on toilets.

I’m sick of women having to THINK about NURSING at all.

I’m sick of women giving up breastfeeding entirely because it’s just too fucking hard to navigate never doing it in public.

I’m sick of society telling us we should breastfeed, but then adding the disclaimer “as long as we don’t have to see it.”

I’m sick of tits being paraded EVERY WHERE all the time in every corner of all media, but we’re shamed for nursing in public.

And my god, I’m sick of people telling us where and how and when we can nurse the babies we birthed, the ones we are working so hard to love and teach and hold, to grow into healthy strong capable human beings. We have a really hard, important job, and we don’t need MUST NOT SHOW NIPPLE EVER added to our list of responsibilities.

Get over yourself, America.

They’re boobs.

They feed babies.

You’re gonna pull through this one.

I’m not saying don’t use a cover. If you’re more comfortable doing that, then cool. What I’m saying is this: If you use a cover begrudgingly, knock that shit off.

Tell the world to go fuck itself. Learn your rights and stand up for them.

And I’m not breastfeeding any more, but if I were, you can think of me, sitting next to you, going in from the top and inviting the world to bite me. Ha. Nice pun.

And since my baby girl weaned herself at two (a year ago), I can only offer you these photos. Facebook likes to take photos like these down. So does Instagram. These photos will surely offend people: Look at that woman! Exposing herself like that! Disgusting! Immoral!

Immodest!

How dare she?

Does she have no self respect?

I THINK I SEE A MILLIMETER OF NIPPLE, people. NIPPLE.

Please, once you’ve stopped writing your angry comment, take a moment to kiss my giant, proud, once-milky breast.

Cheers!

Anyway, if you want, throw your nursing shots up on Instagram and tag it #renegadenursing. Then we can all join together as crazy nursing misfits.

Ha. Yes. So radical. Feeding our babies.

When will the insanity end?

the “toddler supposed to be nursing but not” photo!

Sometimes we nurse and mama’s kinda over it

From the top at home, from the top in public. Too bad I don’t have any of those shots.

oh lord, the chubby hand.

boob as big as her head, that’s what I’m talking about

tell me this isn’t heaven

I miss it. I do.

OH, the gorgeous, blissful milky grin!

these kids are clearly TRAUMATIZED!

Happy Breastfeeding Awareness Month, friends!

Now let’s piss some people off by feeding our babies!

Yay!

Occasionally I get a comment or email from some “well-meaning” human explaining to me that I really should stop saying such horrible things about my kids and being a mother because my kids “will read it someday” and it will “hurt their feelings” or “make them sad” to find out their mom felt that way.

And I see this attitude throughout the internet, in comments and articles critiquing those “shit-talking” mamas.

Yesterday I received a comment that encapsulates this perspective so well I have to share the whole thing: “Janelle you are trying so hard. I do wonder though, after reading some posts ( which do make me laugh!) how your children will feel reading them in the future: for example the one about your ‘ insane toddler’ or the one where you admit you hate playing with them. Lots of mum’s think this but no one actually says it. You think it’s just a vent and no harm done but you can never truly erase things from the Internet. For your children to one day know how you really felt about their childhood is so sad. Please write some more content your kids can be proud of. I say this with love so that one day you don’t have a poor relationship with your grown children. They deserve better than that and so do you. Think what you are sacrificing for others’ cheap laughs. I hope one day family life will bring you the joy it truly can be. All the best.”

Now, I have no interest in criticizing this commenter in particular. We could attack her for being condescending and oddly interested in the life of a stranger (which is all totally true, of course), but what I want to look at is the attitude behind this comment. It’s everywhere. She is mouthing a viewpoint deeply ingrained in our society.

And I want to tear this shit down because it’s nonsense, and it’s ruining futures.

To me, the most terrifying part of this comment is this: “Lots of mums think this but no one actually says it.”

Oh, lord.

This ain’t good. So what you’re saying is: Though many mothers experience the struggles you talk about, think and feel the same way, they have internalized the societal expectation that they SILENCE themselves for the good of their children.

They have learned to SHUT THE FUCK UP because they have uteri and have “made the choice” to join the sacred tribe of motherhood and therefore, they uphold the sacred values of that calling while simultaneously erasing themselves on its behalf.

Erased.

We don’t let our kids know “how we really felt about their childhood” because we do not matter.

But check this out, my friend: How is dishonesty and lying and the perpetuation of mysogynistic expectations GOOD for my kids?

How am I doing my daughters and sons any favor whatsoever by pretending reality is something other than it is? Hey kids, join me in this falsely constructed world, because society says it’s the way we’re supposed to act. Even though it’s not true, and WE ALL KNOW IT’S NOT TRUE, we do it anyway…just because!

Haven’t you blissed-out mamas ever heard of Sylvia Plath? Haven’t you people thought about WHY it is that so many women suffer from post-partum depression, kill their kids, lose their minds, SNAP one day over a batch of gluten-free cupcakes?

And all the family is dead.

Do you ever think your blissed-out bullshit attitude contributes to women hiding themselves in shame as they pretend and pretend and pretend it’s all good and right and fun and rewarding…until they can’t pretend anymore….and Boom. Done.

They’re dying inside. But they can’t say a word.

Because they’re mothers.

And motherhood is sacred, you know. And they might hurt their kids someday. And they love those kids so desperately they wouldn’t take that chance. So they hold on, in silence, with bowed heads and contrite hearts but a fire in their gut that won’t stop burning, a red, raging, insane mass — because maybe they’ve been lied to, or maybe they’re the only defective mother in the world – the one who isn’t infinitely fulfilled and hates playing Monopoly with her kids and thinks PTA meetings are pits of despair and can’t seem to get the house clean and organized when everybody else can..right? She walks around the schoolyard with a smile and a gagged mouth and freshly washed capris, but she pinched her baby that morning. The truth sits like bacteria eating her soul, a little more each day.

But she can’t say a word, because it might hurt her kids.

She tells herself she’s sacrificing for her children. She holds on with all her might to society’s promise that this is what’s best for them and they’ll thank her someday and they’ll be good people in a good world she’s made.

But one day they’re gone, moved on with their lives and yeah, they love her but now she’s 45 or 50 years old and her truth has never been spoken and her life’s half over and all those kids don’t even know.  They’re in a new place but she’s just there, STILL. Wondering why, and how it is she was erased just as she was starting to live.

She probably wonders if she could have told the truth after all, and been a little freer, lived a little stronger, maybe helped her daughter who seems to be struggling with the same shit now, but she can’t say anything because it’s too late now. It’s just too late now.

So they both go on, alone, thinking things but not saying them…

You know what? This is HER LIFE TOO and she is a PERSON not a SHELL. She is a PERSON who acts as MOTHER. She is a mother though not ONLY MOTHER.

You’ve tried to make her “only mother.” You’ve tried to eliminate her.

And you’d sooner see her die than speak her truth.

Well let me tell you something, you fucking rainbow ribbon mamas walking around with butterflies of love flying out your asses: You’re killing people.

Not only that, you’re delusional. You’d rather live in a fucking fantasy world than face the truth, which officially makes you a damn nutcase.

Put this in your pipe and smoke it: I’m doing my kids a FAVOR by telling them the truth. That way, when my girl has her first baby and feels that death of self, maybe she won’t suffer quite like I did. Maybe she’ll know she can call her mom and talk to her about the real, the grit, the nasty, raw ugly truth.

And maybe I can help her with the truth of my own life.

Maybe my son will give me a call in 15 years and say “Mom, I think my wife is going through what you did. She won’t get out of bed and it’s scaring me. She says she doesn’t want the baby. Mom, what should I do? How did you get through this? I want to help her.”

And he’ll have the power and courage and knowledge to face the nasty, raw, ugly, life-saving gorgeous truth. That’s what I want to give.

Why?

BECAUSE IT’S REAL, moron. And therefore it is right. It may be harder, but it’s right. And it’s the only way to become free. Why waste our time devoted to a fantasy? Why waste our lives perpetuating lies, even though we have daily evidence of reality, of the truth? Why do we justify a constant disconnect between what we’re experiencing and what we portray to the world?

Is there a faster track to insanity?

Maybe you don’t find motherhood difficult. Maybe you love it through and through and it works for you 100%. If that’s the case for you, rock the fuck on!

But don’t tell me I should adopt your experience even though it isn’t mine, that I should lie and cover up my truth because it might “hurt” my kids someday, as if you have some monopoly on motherhood because you happen to be living an American-approved Hallmark movie.

Sometimes I hate motherhood. Other times I don’t. How is that hurtful? And even if it is hurtful, who gives a shit?

It’s true.

I don’t care if honesty is the “best” way to parent. I don’t care if telling the truth results in the “best” outcomes. All I know is this: THIS IS WHO I AM.

And I love my kids with every fiber of my being. My love for them pulses like blood through my veins, like the very blood that sustains my life.

And if that’s true, which it is, why would I ever doubt the validity of my occasional loathing for them? That’s true too, and it’s happening in me, and I’m an alright human who loves her kids.

It isn’t wrong because I’m not wrong. I am a human being with a good heart and strong mind, trying my best in a world I barely understand and I’ll tell you right now I would give my life for my kids. Since that’s true, I have nothing to prove.

So why would I shirk from the REST of the truth? Why would I admit the loving part but deny the rest?

Because I’m scared? Because I think it’s wrong? Because it would break my grown children’s hearts and souls to know their mama loved them desperately AND occasionally considered launching herself into oncoming traffic to escape the sound of their bickering?

No, that can’t be it, because, hmmm…

OH YEAH THAT’S RIGHT.

It’s exactly how they feel about their fucking children.

You know what I find infinitely unfair about motherhood?

My kids idolize me but they lack the judgment to determine who, in fact, is idol material, which means they’ve stuck my sorry ass up on a pedestal, expecting greatness all the time, but all they get is me, and I’m fucking crazy, but they can’t see that because I’m their mom and they have poor judgment.

Okay FINE. I know. They “love me as I am” and shit. They don’t have “expectations.” I get that.

But they don’t see reality. They only see some shell of reality, some air-brushed vision of motherly loveliness. Oh yeah, they hate me sometimes, particularly the 11-year-old female, but in the end, they adore me.

I am Mama.

Woooooo.

My reputation precedes me. My title is so impressive it overshadows my deficiencies.

I know this will change someday, and, just like the rest of us, my kids will one day glance at me and realize, much to their shock, awe and dismay, that mother is a flawed, slightly pathetic human. JUST LIKE THE REST OF THE LOSERS.

But for now, they worship the ground I walk on. They gaze at me adoringly, crave my approval, attention, interest.

If they had any sense whatsoever in their little pin heads, they’d recognize that of all the people on this planet, the particular broad who birthed them is not exactly hero material.

She’s weird, and kinda funny sometimes, but heroic? yeahNO.

And so here I am put on this pedestal by these tiny delusional humans and I’m watching them watch me like the sun sets over my ass (wait, that’s not the cliché, is it?) and I’m also watching myself do insane things on a daily basis and I’m yelling and screaming when I shouldn’t and not doing anything heroic whatsoever and while it’s happening – I mean at the very same moment – I’m like “You know Janelle these kids idolize you. You really should knock this shit off.”

But I can’t.

Every day at least once I do something entirely irrational if not wholly ridiculous and ineffective, and I know it, but I can’t stop.

For example, if I call or text my husband more than three times and he doesn’t answer, I generally lose my mind and send him all kinds of exciting messages such as “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” or “Could you please for once in your goddamn life answer your fucking cell phone???”

This is irrational because he quite often answers his cell phone. I’d say he usually answers it. But if I call three times and he doesn’t answer, particularly when he just called me or I know he’s at home, I forget that he often answers his phone. Then I he’s a conspiratory asshole purposely avoiding me. Obviously.

Or sometimes I scream at cars that have wronged me (“Are you fucking serious!?”) as if their windows and mine aren’t rolled up and my kids aren’t in the car.

I also eat crap when I’m fat and stressed and feeling sorry for myself, even though I know eating crap makes me feel fat, stressed and feel sorry for myself.

I stay up until 1am because people are not talking to me and I like it.

I stay up until 1am even though Georgia has never in her life slept past 6:30am. Ever. And every morning when her naked self comes bounding into my room squealing, “Mama! Ya gotta get up!” I curse myself and moan and swear tonight I’m going to bed at a reasonable fucking hour, damn it.

It’s currently 12am.

I often read comment threads in mainstream electronic publications discussing breastfeeding in public, gay people and racism, even though I know it’s soul-sucking and would most likely be named the 10^th ring of hell, were Dante alive to experience it.

I yell at my kids though it has not lasting benefit and never has.

I always feel better when I meditate routinely, but as soon as I realize I’m feeling better I stop meditating, since I no longer need it, you know, because I feel better.

And so I’m going through life as these kids’ mother and I’ve failed so desperately in ways that really aren’t funny at all, but I’m back and I don’t beat myself up for that shit, because it’s over. And I’m here now. And I’m alright now, and I even have this gorgeous thread of confidence that goes something like this: “Well shit, Janelle, you sure are better than you used to be.”

And it’s always true.

But I’m often not that great at life. I feel a lot of fear sometimes, so much it’s debilitating. Or I’m obsessive. Other times I feel like I just couldn’t possibly care less. Sometimes I’m “ normal.”

Other times I stare at a menu and feel like I might actually die if I have to make a decision, and when I feel the server’s eyes boring into my forehead “Choose motherfucker, CHOOSE!” I have an anxiety that threatens to take my breath away. Then I remember it’s just food, at a restaurant, and it’s gonna be alright.

But that shouldn’t happen to a human being’s idol, right?

I mean if two or three untainted gorgeous children are going to worship somebody, shouldn’t she be able to choose cheeseburger or cobb salad without enduring existential pain?

Shouldn’t she have arrived at some place where professionals and grown-ups hang out?

Sometimes my kids run up to me all proud of whatever it is they’ve made or done or found and I’m impatient because I’m trying to do something else, and there are three kids running up to me announcing “Mama, look!” and let’s be honest, I’m not infinitely interested. I’m just not.

And that, perhaps, is the most insane behavior of all, since one of those kids is walking away, you know. Almost 12 years old. I already miss her desperately.

But sometimes they look at me with a yearning and a confidence and a sweetness of desire that makes me want to run. Go away, kid, I’m not that good. Don’t put me on shit, kid. I’m just a fucked-up human who happens to be your mother.

But I won’t run from that job, I can’t. I won’t. The fact is I am their mother. This is the hand they were dealt. I am the hand they were dealt.

And I’m not that bad. I’m way better than I used to be.

Hey but I’m serious now. Let’s think about this. We’re born, we grow up, we do whatever. One day we birth this child and he or she becomes the air we breathe and an unabashed obsessive fan. The kind of fan who throws himself at the feet of their obsession.

Tacks posters up everywhere. Gets a tattoo of her face. Never misses a show. Reads all her biographies.

But we know the truth of ourselves. We know the dark and fear and grit. We know how we’ve failed and the dark thoughts we’ve thought and we’re a fake and a fraud.

Someday, kid, you’ll figure that out.

But for now, my god for now, you look at me with this longing in your eyes to gain my approval and have me adore you with words and smiles and my whole body. And I want to, all the time. I want to pour it on you like a hero would and tell you everything valuable you’ve ever needed to thrive and live a life of Nobel Peace Prize winners.

Or at least happy people.

And I guess sometimes I do.

Mostly I don’t.

I lay my head down at night thinking of you, kid, my biggest fan, and I wonder if you’ll ever know how hard I worked to be that good, for you. Finally realizing I’m not that good, but I’m still your mama, and someday I’ll ask you to see me as that person, and stick around anyway.

When your judgment is better, and you have a choice, and it’s all in the open then.