Everybody’s always trying to figure out how to do it right.

What’s “best” for my children? What can I do to raise the healthiest, most well-adjusted kids possible?

How can I do it “right?”

Well I think we should reframe this whole discussion into a simple recognition that we’re doing it all wrong.

Everything we do, it’s wrong.

Every decision is the wrong decision. And I have proof. Check this out.

If you have a hospital birth you run the risk of being bullied and manipulated by misogynistic OB/GYNs determined to cut you.

But if you have a homebirth, you’ll probably kill your baby.

So there’s that.

And then, once the kid comes out, you will fail. If you circumcise your boy you’ve engaged in genital mutilation and will have most likely set off a disturbing chain of events in the child’s psyche, possibly resulting in a fascination with burning puppies.

But if you don’t, your kid’s gonna get HIV. And you’re a dirty ass hippie.

If you vaccinate, your kid will probably get autism. If you don’t vaccinate you’re a leach sucking the life out of society and bringing back preventable diseases.

So basically, killing all the people.

Breastfeeding? You’re tied to your kid and undoing years of feminist work. Also you’re ruining your tits and will never be hot again.

Not breastfeeding? Wow. Really nice of you to give your kid brain damage, ADHD and a propensity toward obesity.

Cosleeping? Your children are overly-dependent and will not leave your bed until they’re 19 (if they’re lucky enough to even live that long, since you’ll most likely SMOTHER THEM before that). Also your sex life will die and you’ll never sleep again.

Putting baby in a crib? Hello, attachment issues. Babies need their parents, not a CAGE! If you want to stick something in a cage why don’t you get a rabbit? Also you’ll never sleep again.

Working out of the home? Your children are suffering from your absence. They need a MOTHER, not more MONEY. Teen pregnancy and drug use a sure future.

Stay-at-home mom? Well since you don’t work you can’t afford the character-building activities that turn your children into well-rounded individuals. Teen pregnancy and drug use a sure future.

Involved in everything your kids do? Helicopter parenting. You’re creating entitled lazy asses.

Involved in nothing? Hands-off parenting. Why did you even have kids? Kids need parental involvement to succeed. Studies have proven it.

Private school? Your kids are receiving a skewed version of reality wherein everybody’s wealthy and hyper-educated. Learn nothing of the real world.

Public school? Learn too much of the real world. Pushed into non-thinking followers of society. Worker-bees. Nothing ruins a kid like public school.

Well except maybe homeschool.

Homeschool creates social derelicts. Everybody knows that.

Let your kids play with guns, raise serial killers.

Don’t let your kids play with guns? No worries, they’ll chew their pretzel into one.

Barbies? Your daughter requests breast implants at age 13.

No Barbies? Your daughter becomes so obsessed with Barbies she ends up jacking one from Walmart and you get taken by CPS for raising a little hoodlum.

Have TV in your home? Brainwash your kids.

No TV? Raise out-of-touch weirdos. Go fucking nuts because you can’t get a break, which increases irritability and thus yelling, which we all know ruins children.

Speaking of yelling, do you fight with your partner in front of your kids? Well, that sucks. Way to create an unstable, unsafe home environment.

Don’t ever fight with your partner in front of the kids? Nice. Now they have NO EXAMPLE of conflict resolution and will never communicate well.

We could go on like this all day.

Always vacation with your kids? If you don’t vacation alone with your spouse your marriage is going to fizzle out and die, ending in divorce.

Vacation without your kids? How are they ever going to see the world? You’re a self-centered asshole.

Stay in the same house for 20 years? Raise sheltered children afraid of the world.

Move?  Without stability, your children will seek shelter and grow afraid of the world.

And so…what’s the moral of this story?

What does it mean that we’re going everything wrong?

Well, lest my brain deceive me, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t mean we’re doing everything RIGHT.

It’s simple logic: if everything is wrong, then nothing could possibly be right, which then makes everything neither right nor wrong, but rather the same. Equal.

Cost, benefit. Advantage, disadvantage. Right, wrong. Yin and yang and shit.

Playing field, LEVELED.

So sit back and enjoy your failure.

Since there’s no other option, we might as well embrace it, have fun, and raise some fucking well-adjusted children…you know, by doing everything, WRONG.

Just like we’ve been doing since the beginning of time.

Do you know why?

Because motherhood can take it. Because there is nothing stronger.

I can tear it up, brutalize it, make fun of it in every way possible, tease the darkest corners, shed light in the most covered places…and yet she stands undiminished, untouched. She barely hears me. She raises a disinterested brow for a moment, maybe, but then goes on, being her.

The queen.

Like the friend with whom all barriers are broken, motherhood and I have gone the lengths. We’ve already beaten each other, or tried: She won. We’ve stood face to face in the firing line.

I’ve fought her in a million rings. She wins every time.

I’ve told her to get out. I’ve laughed in her face. I’ve sworn I would force her out.

She sits like a ghost in the easy chair. Never moves a muscle.

You know she’s dished out more than I can ever give with my words, on this blog or a thousand blogs.

She made me a woman I wasn’t ready to become. She throws me every day into the mercy of the universe: through pregnancy, birth, parenthood – my whole existence begs for my kids to keep living, for their hearts to keep beating, for their feet to find loving ground, from the moments of their births I’ve been enslaved. To her. To them.

And yet not.

For I am myself still, independently, and I’ve got this mind and heart and ambition, and it appears I’ll never fully reconcile the two.

There’s nothing gentle about that.

You think a mother’s love is gentle?

Think again.

My love will kick your ass. Don’t believe me? Try to hurt my kid.

My love is a muddy soldier charging enemy lines. Why? Because there is no other choice. This is where we are. This is what we’re doing. It doesn’t matter that I’m tired and broken and somewhat disinterested. It doesn’t matter that it’s Saturday or I’m alone or my last baby passed away.

You get up. You move your feet. Motherhood wins again.

sweat and blood and work. grit and dirt and bruises.

I’m dragged through the mud crying, but begging for it never to change.

Please don’t leave me, motherhood. I’m nothing without you. But I wish, sometimes, you’d kindly go fuck yourself.

My love is the struggle of a drowning man catching air. My tenacity will amaze you.

My love is woman offering her breast to a starving child, knowing there’s no milk.

My love would kill me in an instant, for my baby.

And it would kill you too, for my baby.

Do you think she gets hurts feelings when I make fun of her, when I belittle her, when I voice my little fears and agonies and jab at her ribs?

You think she cares?

No. She doesn’t. Because motherhood has nothing to prove. She’s the one with the power and she knows it. WE BOTH KNOW IT. The one with the power sits back and relaxes. No bluster or fear.

I’m like an annoying puppy nipping at her heels. She kicks me aside without a word.

She knows I’ve got nothing on her, and I’ll kneel at her feet in adoration at any moment, because she’s given it all to me: my heart, my future, my life, in separate souls, these babies who caught me up in their gorgeous little hands and touched my head, with a kiss: “Mama.”

And I’ll fall at her knees to hear that voice again, to hear it always, to know it’s still me.

And I’ll fight whatever fight’s necessary to make her keep on loving me, motherhood. I’ll fight for you, you sick twisted fuck.

Knowing you are eating me alive, each day as I wake up exhausted without any answers, lying on the floor searching for peace, to know how to give the girl what she needs, and the boy eyes to read, and the baby. I’m just gone too much.

And I’m just so in love.

So yes, world, this Mother’s Day, you’ll find me talking shit about motherhood.  You’ll find me laughing my ass off. You’ll find me dripping with sarcasm and saying things I shouldn’t  in an unfeminine and unladylike manner. And you’ll say I’m diminishing a mother’s value.

But I disagree.

I just want to know: Why do I bother you so? My tongue, my attitude, my rugged irreverence?

What about the grit, the incredibly HARD WORK of my life makes you so uncomfortable?

Does it not fit your marketing, your Hallmark card? Does it make your Lifetime movie seem irrelevant? Do you have to rethink your own mother?

Or are you afraid? Are you just simply terrified?

To see us as we are….or can be…?

fierce, mouthy warriors,

fighters and shit-talkers.

Soldiers.

Burly and ripped and sweaty and so goddamn powerful, the toughest motherfuckers you’ve ever seen,

yet

offering the softest breast to a petal mouth seeking, a feather brush on a newborn’s cheek, the most delicate pink, a baby’s soft spot, a “hush” from a loving mouth, she enfolds a tiny creature of perfect vulnerability into stone security, a broken little being —

catching the exhausted of the world in muscle-ripped arms,

pulling small falling hands into her own calloused palms,

and kissing them a thousand times, sending them on their way, to build their own.

the mother.

Is it too much for you, that we exist like this, in perfect contradiction? Is it too much for you that we are all of it, right now, at once?

Then go. Good riddance.

If you can’t take our heat, get the hell out of our kitchens.

Your bellies aren’t the ones we’re living to fill anyway.

And honestly, motherhood doesn’t have time for this shit.

And we aren’t going to write a new story for you, because it’s more palatable, more pleasant. We aren’t going to invent something to soothe your desires.

This is us. This is it.

This is Mother’s Day….

the softest, fiercest mama love…

1. You know, sometimes life is to be lived. Other times, it’s to be endured. I mean nobody ever wants to admit it, but there are times when the only thing you can do is grit your teeth and power forward knowing it will get easier soon and you can live again.
2. I am in that place. I have so much going on right now I feel like I’m drowning and it really isn’t in a fun way. Last semester of grad school, writing for 2 websites, super busy in other work, three kids, trying to figure out what to do with my tween, my boy (see #8 below), myself after I graduate. The toddler. Hay fever. Lack of funds.
3. I’m so sorry for not writing much on this blog. I will come back. I WILL RESURFACE. I will write FTM Friday each week, and on Fridays (ok that might be pushing it). Hang with me, ladies and 3 or 4 gentleman. You know I love you.
4. I went on a “press trip” in April to San Antonio through Parenting magazine. I got to stay in a hotel for 2 nights BY MY FUCKING SELF and drive a BMW at high speeds on a wet track. You can read about my trip here. You might get a kick out of it.
5. We’re starting to plan family and friend summer mini-vacation trips. I’m holding on to them for dear life. June 1, people. June 1 and I get my life back (school and grading is over by then).
6. On a super positive note, one week from today I will be at the Crest Theater as a cast member for the “Listen to Your Mother” show. I wish I could express to you how lucky I feel to be a part of this, how genuinely struck I am by the other cast-members, by the power of the stories they’re telling – by their humor and depth.
7. There will be a lot of strength in that room – a lot of heart. A lot of the badassness (dude whatever it’s totally a word) that makes us women. And mothers. And no, we aren’t going to stand up and talk about our birth stories. We’re going to stand up and BLOW SOME MINDS. That, at least, is the plan.
8. I sincerely hope you will join us, and if you do, come and say “hello” to me after the show for goodness’ sake. I’d love to meet you.
9. Speaking of plans, my boy has been officially diagnosed with dyslexia. We’re trying to figure out what to do. You know, once again, it sucks to not be the people with thousands and thousands of extra dollars. Do you know how many programs are available for dyslexic kids if you have 5 or 10 thousand dollars? Do you know how LITTLE is available for people who don’t? God damn it the whole thing makes me sick.
10.  Also, my house. OMYGOD my house. It’s so bad it makes that picture I posted look orderly. Not quite. But almost.

Hold me. It’s almost over.

Anyway, here’s what we’ve been up to…well, the good stuff. xoxoxo

P.S. JUST GOT AN EMAIL: I passed my exam. I got my degree.

Sigh.

Hell yeah I’m proud. That was a long time coming.

YES!

Sticks don’t hurt people…Georgie, on the other hand…

barefoot fishing? it’s simply perfect.

needed this day…I live in a beautiful county.

When the hell did this happen?

the dimples, people. the dimples.

moments like this sure mean a ton to me now…

he’s totally learned to skateboard

to celebrate the fact that the hotel was so nice it had robes, I made duck face and sent this photo to my dad, who was supposed to be my husband. I AM A LOSER.

So it appears I will write my FTM Friday posts on any day other than Friday, and I most likely won’t do it weekly?

WILL I EVER BE ORGANIZED PEOPLE, EVER?

Oh whatever. Fuck the man. Go hard or go home. Live on the edge.

Et cetera.

Speaking of on-the-edge-living, how about some coconut milk body wash?

And…she turns in her badass card.

Whatever. Even rebels need body wash.

Ok so here’s the story behind this recipe. As part of the Great Shampoo Recipe Search of 2013, I came across this recipe for coconut milk shampoo (also linked below) and I was all “Oh em gee I have found my life force,” but unfortunately it turned my hair into something along the lines of greasy bamboo. Hmmmm. Not sure from whence that one came, but I can dig it.

I’ve learned that any shampoo with castille soap equals tragedy for my noggin. Sucks.

Anyway it totally didn’t work for my hair, but the recipe said you could use it as a body wash too, so I did.

And it worked for my body. Also my face. I use this on my body instead of soap. Between the body scrubs and this, I haven’t used soap since I went crunchy back in 2008. I’m kidding. It was January. Of this year.

I find this stuff luxurious and wonderful. You could make it as a gift for a friend or be selfish like me.

Please note that you can use whatever scents you want. I like tea tree.

I also think tea tree keeps bacteria down.

Also, if you use a whole can of coconut milk, you’re going to get a LOT of body wash. My recommendation is to put it in 2-3 containers and keep one in your shower. The others should stay in the fridge. Also, I add vitamin E because not only is it good for the skin, it also keeps bacteria from growing. I have had no mold issues with any of my products, but one of my homegirls out on the East coast had a problem with funky shit growing in her hand salve.

I told her it was an East coast thing so she should probably move here. You know, in the interest of hand salve.

So here you go. Coconut Milk Body Wash. (Adapted from here.)

Live it. Love it.

1/4 cup coconut milk

1/3 cup castille soap

1 tsp vitamin E (or 2 if you omit the almond oil)

1 tsp almond oil (or 2 if you omit the vitamin E)

15-20 drops essential oil(s)

1-2 tsp vegetable glycerin (optional – add for a thicker wash)

Put it all in your container. Shake. Use. Move on.

Xoxoxo

Fuck the man!

So it happened the other day.

My daughter, she’s eleven. She’ll be twelve in November.

She grew up the other day.

We were going to a town in the wine country, to hear a rock-n-roll band. We were going to have dinner first. It was a lovely evening.

She put on a dress, gloves, boots, a hat – and five years.

She wore them like a loose veil across cheek bones I never noticed, on the poise of squared shoulders, soft over eyes that knew something, something more than me, something adults know, or almost know, if they could remember.

She nearly stopped my heart when I saw her in that get-up, so beautiful she snatched my words away. I looked at her and kept on, harder and harder to see it clearly.

a woman?

The second I saw it it vanished, and there stood again my little one, my first one, who played in the sand and still does.

My Ava.

“Mama, I hate you!”

She yelled and ran off.

I stirred the meat in the pan and heated like the cast iron before me. I thought how dare she speak to me that way. I AM THE MOTHER. I thought about storming down the hall and demanding better treatment. HOW DARE YOU. Who do you think you are?

Well I’m a girl, growing up a little, and it fucking sucks sometimes.

A victim of biology.

Fuck biology.

Fuck hormones. And nature.

For taking my baby from me, even if it’s only in moments still, so young. A victim of a uterus and ovaries a decade or two before she even needs them.

I have no idea how to stand near this child. I have no idea what to say and where to reach as I watch her slip away, only in moments still, of beauty or rage.

So goddamn young.

But always moving away, or so it seems, until she tells me that she wants to hear my voice to feel better, and I want to cling to today for dear life. I want to hold it like a drowning man clings to a raft. I want to weave her back into my skin and hold her there like it was and it’s always been.

except that it isn’t. not anymore.

and I cannot.

“I HATE YOU!” the words sting my core because they’re true, for a moment, and maybe I hate her too. because how can I do anything different with this pain taunting me, dangling in my face. i know it’s coming. it’s right there.

losing her.

No, I don’t hate her, not really, even for a second.

They say she’ll come back, after the teenage years. That she’ll just seem gone.

They say it’s so wonderful again, after those years.

They say supportive things.

But what I see is that my daughter is growing up, and it’s all exactly as it should be, except that this is not a change a human can stomach. how can I take it? how can i accept it?

TELL ME YOU FUCKING WORLD, how can I let go? When all I want is one more day and one more after that of our little family and the oldest child still a child and she’s going.

She’s going anyway.

I can only let go, and yet I cannot.

Once again, here I am. A mother. The Mother.

With nothing.

I stir the meat a little longer and remember eleven and twelve and sixteen and how I couldn’t see myself in myself sometimes, and I didn’t know either. “Who do you think you are?”

I have no fucking clue, mom.

so I walk down the hall and open her door. she’s weeping into her pillow. I sit by her and say nothing, look at the trinkets and the papers and stuffed animals. I look at the jewelry and the books and treasures. I touch her arm. I see the clutter, the mess, the thousands of things on the walls. the notes from friends and things from second, third, fourth grade.

the little girl beneath a towering world.

her little haven in an untouchable world begging her to join it.

her place in my home, her home, all I can offer beyond what I am in all my broken form:  a mother, her mother, a new mother I guess, to a new form of child.

I see again it’s all just a series of being reborn. It’s all just a series of recreation, of being tweaked and carved into something new, as I kick and scream and weep for the old.

Just when I was sure it would never end.

Just when I thought I knew what tomorrow will hold.

I looked away for a moment and lost my baby.

In her room, I think I’ll join her.