I spend a good portion of my mothering life in a state of “What the fuck just happened?”

The rest of the time I’m like “Wait. I’m supposed to care about that?”

You know, I’m looking at magazines and headlines and websites and since they’re all saying the same thing it APPEARS that these things are central to motherhood and maybe, since those things don’t really interest me, I’M THE WEIRDO.

[Which we all know is true. I’m just sayin’ I don’t think it’s on account of my lack of interest Jessica Simpson’s birth plan.]

At first this bothered me. I thought I was the lost sheep among well-adjusted, um, mother sheep? Sorry. That went poorly. You know, like everybody was “in” on something and I was out. Like all the mothers are doing it, Janelle, what’s wrong with you?

It was like high school all over again, when the popular girls seemed to know how to wear make-up and date boys and I was like “let’s drop acid and listen to some Dead.”

What is with me and the bad examples today?

Anyway I admit it, I used to think something was wrong with me because I didn’t give a shit about most of the things mainstream media seemed to say were inherent in the experience of motherhood. It’s not that I have anything against these things, it’s just that they don’t have much relevance to my actual life, my daily experience of motherhood.

But as the years went by and I grew more secure in my own marginality, sagging breasts and generally poor attitude, I started meeting more and more women who can’t relate to “The Very Best Jogging Stroller!!” and “The Mommy Spring Must-Haves!”

In fact, I now know there’s a whole shitload of us in the same “Yeah, sorry, don’t give a fuck” boat.

So, as a helpful little guide (I’m so helpful, right?), I have composed a list of topics I keep seeing but just don’t care about.

Its official name is:

Shit I Don’t Care About but You Keep Talking About Anyway.
(and by “you” I mean “media,” obviously)

• “The cutest [insert holiday] Cupcakes” – Since I never, ever, EVER volunteer for any school-related event, celebration or activity, my need for appropriately themed cupcakes is pretty much nil. Furthermore, if faced with a cupcake need (beyond hormonally induced depression), I usually discover it approximately 8 hours before they’re due, resulting in an angry last-minute trip to the store and boxed cupcakes that are lucky to have frosting. If they have sprinkles I have achieved greatness.
• Best Yoga Pant – I don’t do yoga (though I’m always going to start “next week!”). If I did, it would be amazing and my pride would overflow and I’d be running around telling my friends what a badass I am. The type of pant I’m in would be rather superfluous at that point, don’t you think?
• “Matching Bras and Underwear” – If attending an event important enough that I’m contemplating my undergarments, I WOULD BE WEARING SPANX, which immediately renders the whole discussion meaningless. Do you see the problem here?
• “How to Please my Man in Bed” – Totally got this one already: Have sex with him.
• “How to Spice up My Marriage” – Have sex with him more than once a week. Why are we discussing the obvious?
• “How to Raise Gifted Children” – Honestly, at this point, I’m just hoping they don’t end up crackheads.
• “How to Plan a Week’s Worth of Meals” – I feel like we should start with 2 or 3 days and see how that goes before we get all carried away with “weeks.”
• “How to Get Along with Other Moms at Playgroups” – Should be renamed to “How to spot the mom as miserable as you are so you can get together and talk shit.”
• “How to Entertain Kids.” – NOT MY PROBLEM.
• “How to Engage Kids in Imaginative Play” – Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?
• “Baby Sleep Solutions.” – Lies, all lies.
• “Effective Disciplining Techniques” – Yes, thank you for the excellent ideas, which I will try so hard to adopt only to find myself 3 days later resorting to the old stand-by disciplinary technique of “yell, feel guilty, apologize, repeat.”
• “Favorite Baby Toys” – As much as you keep trying to convince me my baby will like [whatever] better than cardboard boxes, cell phones, kitchen utensils and/or the small chokable item she just discovered on the carpet, years of experience tell me otherwise and I no longer believe you.
• “Kate Middleton’s Maternity Outfits” – Also don’t give a shit about the maternity outfits of any other rich, skinny woman who looks better pregnant than I do not pregnant. Kthanksbai.
• Come to think of it, I also don’t care about their baby showers, nursery décor, strollers, weird-ass naming choices, or the $89.00 onesie they just purchased (with the ironic hipster slogan on the front).
• Any article with the word “vs.” in it (“Crib vs. Co-sleeping/Circumcision vs. Non/Bottle vs. Breast)” – WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M SOME SORT OF SADIST? All this article is going to do is result in the most insane horrific name-calling comment section you’ve ever seen. All the crazies come out for these fuckers. Please count me out.
• “How to have a Smooth Transition back to Work after Maternity Leave” – Replace “smooth” with “the least horrifying” or “least traumatic,” and we can talk.
• “How to Organize your House” – Reading an article as a first step to organizing my house is like sending an email to world leaders asking them to please consider world peace at their next staff meeting. NICE IDEA, completely ineffective.
• “How to Keep your Car Clean and Neat” – I’m sorry. Come again?
• “How to Nurse Discreetly” – Oh go fuck yourself.
• “Things you Shouldn’t Say in Front of Your Children” – I guarantee you that ship has sailed.
• “Food in the Shape of cute Animals” – I once made pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse. Then I felt weird inside for like a week. I’m pretty sure a vegetable panda would traumatize me for life.
• “How to make memorable holidays” – Um, “memorable” is not the problem. “Enjoyable” is the thing I can’t seem to find.
• “Easy Steps to Potty Training/Weaning/Sleeping alone” – Look, if you’re going to just make shit up, I feel like you shouldn’t be writing articles.

And now, my favorite topic of all time:  “How to be a More Confident, Guilt-Free Mother.”

This is pure beauty on account of the irony, because as we all know, the only way to achieve that is to STOP READING CRAP ABOUT MOTHERHOOD.

Boom.

I feel better already.

You?

I used to not cry about things like this.

The big tragedies. The ones that kill and kill and kill.

Columbine. 9-11.

I don’t think I cried about those. Not even a single tear.

Maybe I was just too self-centered. Maybe too young. Maybe I just didn’t get it, couldn’t feel it.

Humanity.

Maybe I hadn’t lived long enough to have that pain mean something, to me, safe and protected hundreds of miles away.

It used to feel unreal.

Like it was sad. “Wow, that’s sad.” But I didn’t cry. Because really. What do I care? It’s not me. I mean I cared because it’s sad, but it didn’t affect my life.

Or maybe I’m just an asshole.

I don’t know, I just didn’t cry.

But I cried today.

I was sitting in a staff meeting and I read an article on my phone. I read the words “8-year-old boy” and I put the phone down and I closed my eyes. And I fucking cried.

I felt so tired. Just so tired, beat.

I don’t know what I was crying about. I don’t know those people. I don’t know that boy. I’ve never been to Boston. But it was like this pain just came from the depths of me, out of nowhere and everywhere, from something that makes me the same as the mother who lost her son today and the people bleeding and the humanity.

I felt crushed under the weight of an idea of a boy gone.

A boy gone.

And when I cried the third time driving home, I realized I was wrong.

I know him. I’ve always known him.

I loved him.

I love him now.

I love him with all my damn heart. Because he’s a boy like mine or nothing like mine, and there’s something I recognize in him, something I know, like I know the people murdered and the youth bullied and the hatred and the war and your grandmother who passed away yesterday. And mine, who died 4 years ago.

A soul. Two eyes, hair, little hands and skin and a voice.

My boy. Yours.

If you let yourself go you’ll feel it too, the knowing. The friendship, the love, fond recognition of faces you’ve never seen. I know you.

And I wish you weren’t gone.

In a few days it will all be back to normal. The Facebook feed will be all the old meaningless shit and the news will have moved on and nobody will care except the distant passing glance. Of remembrance.

But at least today I cried, for an old friend, for a boy who was born and lived and died, like I have, and will, and you.

Humanity.

My old friends.

I guess I cried for you today.

hope i can recognize you tomorrow

Yay, FTM Friday on a Saturday! I love you!

I’m happy to back. I hate studying for comprehensive exams. I’m never reading another piece of literature. ever ever as long as I live. I hate literature.

And…I’m baack.

So good to see you.

Soon, as you may have noticed, the FTM situation is a little different on the blog. The FTM posts now publish on a separate page, which you can access in the menu on the left. It’s a long story, but I thank my friend Katie, who blogs here, for making that story happen.

And now. Face wash.

Check it out, one of the things that threw me into the world of renegade body products (Where do I come up with this shit? I mean seriously, renegade body products? I embarrass myself.) is the fact that face wash is SO expensive, and it just seems to result in the need for MORE products. Ya feel me? I mean you need one product to remove mascara/make-up. You need another product to wash your face. You need moisturizer. BUT, if you’re like me, your skin is always changing; read: sometimes I have acne. Other times it’s dry like the damn Mojave.

So you end up with like seventy five products, all of which are expensive.

But not now. Now I have 2, maybe 3 products, but I rarely use them all and they are cheap. Cheap. Cheap.

When I tell you this you may freak out, and that’s cool. This is freak-out safe zone. We’re all friends here.

I wash my face with a mixture of olive oil and castor oil. And it works. It works as well as the expensive stuff I bought. Maybe better. But definitely as good and it’s chemical free, and probably an 1/8 of the price.

So I read this post at Crunchy Betty (she’s like amazeballs, by the way) and I’m all “Wow, that sounds weird. That chick’s weird.” But I had already determined to get all hardcore up in here, so I made a mixture of 1/2 olive oil and 1/2 castor oil, then I threw in some tea tree because I have acne-prone skin, and I starte

d using it at night.

I lightly wet my face. I put about a quarter-sized amount of the wash in my palm then massage it into my face while running the super hot water. When it’s hot, I wet a washcloth completely, wring it out a bit, and lay it on my face for 20 seconds or so, then I gently rub the oil off my face.

ingredients, sans the boy

My face is clean, moisturized, soft, and it removes my eye make-up.

Apparently this is called the “oil cleansing method.” I would like to call it the “Fuck Yeah Cleansing Method.”

I do this at night, when I really want that “deep clean” (to remove make-up, dirt, sweat, depression and general malaise). When I’m washing my face quickly (because yes, sometimes 1 minute is too long of a face-washing commitment), I use a coconut body/face wash I’m going to share with you next week. PROMISE.

So people, try it. But first, read the post by Crunchy Betty (yes, I linked it TWICE). It explains all the different types of oils you can use and the benefits of each for different types of skin. I use olive as my “carrier oil,” and the castor oil is critical – you have to have it. I buy mine on Amazon. But you can use jojoba, almond, avocado, and many more. But you have to use the castor. That’s what’s really cleaning your face.

And you adjust the ratio based on your skin type: more castor for oilier skin, less for dryer skin. So I’ve actually made a couple variations to use during different times of the month, when my, um, fucking horrible hormones ruin my mood, body, skin, and life.

So here you go. Try it. You’ll love it. Or you won’t. But if you do you’ll have found a chemical-free, inexpensive, super effective  make-up remover/face-cleansing method. (Also, did you know you can just use coconut oil or olive oil to remove eye make-up? I will NEVER buy make-up remover again. Ever. Oil works so much better.)

“Fuck Yeah Face Wash”

Oily skin: 2/3 castor oil in whatever container, 1/3 olive or other carrier oil (almond, jojoba, grapeseed, etc.)

Dry skin: 1/3 castor oil; 2/3 olive oil (or other carrier)

“Normal” skin: ½ and ½ baby!

Not gonna lie, I feel like I’m going something nice for myself when I do this. It feels like a mini-facial. Only cheaper. And more green.

Whatever. It’s rad. Try it.

Let me know what you think.

Do you ever look at your toddler and think to yourself “Clearly, this child is insane.”?

Like she’s nuts. Crazy. Bonkers. LOST IT.

Like somewhere between 14 months and 2.5 years, some critical brain component just shut right down and now, well, now you’ve just got the leftover nutcase.

You know what the worst part of my insane toddler is? I used to think insane toddlers were the result of bad parenting, since my first two toddlers were all calm and easy-going and NOT LAUNCHING THEMSELVES OUT OF THEIR CRIBS at 5am, after removing all of their clothes and diaper and squealing “MAMA! You gotta get up! I pooped!”

And only one of those things is actually true. I have to get up. That’s true. But you didn’t just poop. That’s a lie, Georgia.

The thing is, the kid lies all the time. She tells everybody she’s five. And a boy. She’s a five-year-old BOY. Ask her. Try to argue with her.

But that’s cute, right? Of course it is. Well, “of course it is” unless you’re one of those weirdos who can’t get behind some good old-fashioned gender-bending. And of course that’s the person who says to your daughter “You’re a big girl!” to which the girl scowls and declares “I’m a big BOYl!!” and the anti-gender-bender looks at you like you’re some sort of child abuser and you’re like “Look, dude, I didn’t do it.”

She decided she was a five-year-old boy and now she demands to be dressed in monster-truck, car and airplane shirts, but she calls them her “princess shirts.”

Dude, WHAT?

So, yeah. Our 5-year-old princess boy in a monster truck shirt is cute as hell, but really, really freaking annoying sometimes and, as far as I can tell, insane. I’m pretty sure the kid has paranoid delusions. She’s sitting there playing with her toys. Rocket sits down like 2 feet away playing with HIS toys. She gives him a sly glance, all suspicious and shit, trying to size him up to determine what sort of threat he poses to her general well-being.

Suddenly she launches herself at him: “That’s MY TOY!!!!!”

And he’s like “Wait. What just happened? Why is this blonde psycho coming at my head?” but it’s too late because she’s decided he’s out to get her and there’s no turning back and one must defend oneself against the threats of elder siblings, so clearly the only thing to do is wail and scream and flip the fuck out because there’s this boy and he’s IN MY SPACE and those are MY TOYS and if he DOESN’T MOVE I’M GOING TO DIE.

Or let’s talk about food.

Me: “Georgie. Here are some grapes for you.”

G: “I want my OWN!!!!”

Me: “These are your own.”

G: “Noooooooooooooo! I want my own.”

Me, not feeling like fighting: “Okay, whatever dude.” And, making her a new bowl of grapes: “Here.” Then I give the first bowl to Rocket.

G sees this, runs to him: “Those are MY GRAPES!!!”

Me: “No, these are yours. You wanted a new bowl.”

G: “HE TOOK MY GRAPES! Those are my grapes!!! Rocket took my grapes!!”

And then, chucking herself on the ground, a 20-minute tantrum ensues, while the rest of the family looks on in utter disbelief, and you remember why you can’t ever, EVER cater to two-year-olds. But my lord, both options just suck SO BAD, and often result in the same damn outcome.

Option 1: Do not cater to toddler’s demands. Endure tantrum.

Option 2: Cater to toddler’s demands. Endure tantrum. Raise horrible child.

So I guess Option 1 is better, but seriously people. That kid cried so hard this morning over a piece of fucking toast that she made herself vomit. And I’m all “Use your words. I’ll discuss this with you when you calm down.” And she just keeps on screaming.

On and on and on. And I’m not sure I can take it. So I put her in her room and ignore her for 15 minutes, reminding myself that if you don’t acknowledge the tantrums, eventually they’ll stop. OR WHATEVER THE FUCK. The best part is that if you read parenting articles on tantrums, they’ll give you all sorts of “helpful tactics,” but in the moment, it’s all I can do not to launch myself into oncoming traffic.

The kid flips like a switch. One second she’s fine, the next second she’ morphed into a flailing ball of squealing crazy and you’re like “My goodness it sure is fun being a mother.” I sure wish I could have like nine more kids.

Seriously. Sometimes this shit ain’t fun. It’s not even amusing. It’s not even vaguely interesting.

And toddlers are fucking insane.

It’s amazing mothers don’t emerge from this gig with PTSD. Seriously. How do we survive this nonsense?

Well, I guess this crap helps…for a minute, at least…I mean she’s wearing a MASK and CAPE.

Clearly, I’m powerless.

my little boy princess superhero

1. In 11 days I take my exam. That is why you haven’t seen much of me, and you haven’t seen any FTM Friday posts. I apologize for my flakiness. It’s not that the love is missing. It’s that there are only so many times you can neglect real life for the sake of fucking lip balm. Hand salve may be another story.
2. But I will return, lovers. I will. And it will be good. Actually I already know what I’m doing next Friday: face wash. HoldOntoYourSeats.
3.  Anyhoo, my birthday was amazing. As I was kicking and screaming and weeping my way through Victorian literature at Starbucks, shooting death glares at the asshole next to me who wouldn’t stop jabbering on his cellphone (because come on dude, this a public place, you have no right to use it however you see fit! Only as I SEE FIT. Why isn’t the world clear on that by now?), my husband calls me and says “wanna have lunch?” and I’m all “What? Aren’t you at work (an hour or 2 away)?” and he’s all “I got off early.” So he swings by and we eat lunch at a place we’ve been eating at for 13 years.
4. Holy fuck that’s a long time. Then we went to my mom’s and she made me my favorite dinner, the one she’s been making me since I was a little girl. (Yes, I’m 34 and I still go to my mom’s house for my birthday dinner. WHAT?) And just like when I was a little girl, I looked forward to it all day, my mom’s cooking. Fried pork chops, rice, and gravy (that will change your life).
5. Sometimes I can’t believe I’m that person for 3 little people. They think that about my spaghetti.
   Nobody makes it like you, mom. And my heart flips because I get it, and it’s true, and nobody can be my mom making that meal, and nobody will do it just right and nobody will make all of life feel all right, by being her and cooking food. What a love we’ve got.
6. And the day after my bday (you feelin’ the love yet?) the female love of my life and I went to Berkeley and hung out all day, just the two of us. We spent 2 hours eating Indian food and more hours buying crap we don’t need (including about 12,000 things from “Daiso,” the Japanese dollar store). But clearly the best part was her trying on a Fubu jeans onesie. AND ROCKIN’ IT. (photo below.)
7. Anyway so then it was Easter. Wait. Today is Easter. We did virtually nothing today. It was way better than last year. We visited my brother and his family. We did an egg hunt yesterday for an hour, in street clothes. Today I dressed my kids in Easter garb for literally twenty-four minutes, long enough to take some damn pictures and move on.
8. Oh come on. You know you do it…take pictures so you have photographic evidence that all important holidays were celebrated and as a mother, you supported important bonding moments. (So don’t blame me your inner child is all crushed or whatever the hell it is you tell your shrink. We had Easter! We were a good family GODDAMNIT!)
9. Okay there’s something wrong with me. Let’s move on to another subject. If you’re bored, you can read an article I wrote over at Allparenting on Victoria’s Secret and its efforts to EAT OUR YOUNG or, even more depressing, you can read about how I instilled in my oldest child a horrible temper. Yay!
10. While driving home the other day, my 2-year-old informed me that she wanted to “pop some tags.” Yes, as in the Macklemore song “Thrift Shop.” Yes, the one that has about twelve swear words in it. Parenting win? I think soooo…..
11. And, in totally unrelated news, Rocket came bounding into the living room two days ago yelling “The ‘fucking awesome’ song is on!!!!”

So we’re not listening to Macklemore anymore.

I mean goodness, we could have had company over.

“Whatcha know about rockin’ a wolf on your noggin’?”

I need some rest.

Georgie has been wearing a cape and mask for 4 days. So she wins at life.

Boom. Easter. Done.

The word you’re looking for is “HAWT.”

The boy and I went to all-you-can-eat-sushi. It was amazing.

STILL CUTE

She tried guacamole. She loves guacamole.

xoxo,

J