So that whole Push Present post, along with the brilliant comment by Stephanie over at Momma Be Thy Name (if you aren’t reading her, you should), got me thinking about “playdate calling cards.” So of course, like any sane human, I Googled that shit. I know, I’m a thinker.

I found out all sorts of interesting things. Not really. To be honest, it’s a rather insipid topic (which fully explains why I’m writing about it, right?).

I pretty much only learned that they go by multiple names: “mommy calling cards,” “mommy playdate cards,” and, for those into the whole brevity thing, “mommy cards.”

First of all, don’t call me “mommy.” I thought we’ve been over this.

Secondly, do these things exist because it’s too difficult to put somebody’s number in your fucking cell phone? Or is it just to be cute, even, perhaps, what I might call Excessively Cute? and you know how I feel about The Excessively Cute.

These are deep questions. Can’t be answered at one sitting.

However, while contemplating this inane topic, I realized that I could perhaps get behind the whole “mommy card” thing, were they not called “mommy cards,” not quite so damn cute, and didn’t imply that my ENTIRE IDENTITY can be conveyed by the words “mommy to Ava, Rocket and Georgia!”

So basically I pretty much can’t get behind them. Or I could, if they were recast into some totally inappropriate, renegade version, you know, something we might call “Cards to weed out the women who wouldn’t want to hang out with me or my offspring anyway.”

Not particularly catchy.

But alas, all the “mommy cards” I saw said variations of the aforementioned statement “mommy to ____” followed up with contact information. Some of them said “Let’s have a playdate!” at the top.

Now these simply will not work for me, so I figured I’d make a few that would.

I could hand these to women who chat with me at the park, seeing the in-public, well-behaved (more or less), not-saying-“fuck” version of me. [I try not to say the F word around other people’s children. Or my own, though that’s always a bit sketchy. Let’s change the subject.] And then, they would have fair warning that I am THAT type of mother with THOSE types of children…and then, she can run.

FYI, I don’t drink anymore, on account of the last one being TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY THE WAY I USED TO ROLL.

Sorry for the all caps. It’s a disease.

You know, now that I really think about it, I think I really, really like the idea of these things.

They are just so damn versatile. Don’t you think?

But seriously. Stop calling me “mommy.”

xo

Normally I don’t write my weekly Sunday post because I’m disorganized and insane and can’t pull it together. This week, however, I haven’t written because I don’t want to tell you about my week. Not because I don’t want to share – because we ALL know I’m a hopeless over-sharer – but rather, because for once, I’m without words. Well, almost without words.

I write when I have something to say. I write because something rolls in my head, around and around, until it ends somewhere. And when it ends, I know what I need to say. Even with those silly weekly posts, I know what I want to say.

But I don’t know what to say now. I’ve got no “message,” no “take away.” Not much of anything at all.

On Wednesday, a dear friend – one of those family members who aren’t family members – died in a car accident. To my children, he was a beloved uncle. To my husband, he was a best friend. To me, well, he was a man I knew well and cared about deeply for the last 11 years – revered highly – and absolutely adored for what he was in the lives of my in-laws and husband and children. The way he loved them. The way they loved him.

He was the one who never missed a birthday party, a family celebration, a barbeque. He was the one who never said “no I can’t help.” He was just.always.there.

Until now. Now he is gone.

His heart, it was huge. I see that heart right now. I miss who he was. Just him.

And so I’ve spent the week grieving with my children, watching them walk through this with the miraculous grace only a child possesses – so in the moment, so bravely, so unaffected and free. They play, eat, sleep, walk. And then they remember, cry, fold into each other’s arms, talk, remember. And then, they play again.

But I, I’m a little more stuck in my brain — I’ve got a story about it. I replay it and wonder why. I replay it and I want it to be different. I replay it and I my heart breaks for him, for being gone like this, and his daughter, and my in-laws and my husband and my kids, who have faced the intransience of life. Right now. So early.

I tell myself I need this to mean something. I tell myself I need to live. Now.

Now.

Finish the book I started writing, lose the last 20 pounds, apply to PhD programs I’ll “never get into.” Read the books gathering dust on my night stand. Spend time in an ashram. Live in Europe. Do some fucking yoga.

But it’s all so clichéd – that embrace life carpe diem bullshit after somebody dies – because what are the facts? The fact is this death will fade, this loss will drift into my past, my life will go on, and slowly, without my knowing, in will creep the illusion of security, the vast fallacy of permanence, the great human trick  – and I will buy it again, once more – the rabbit in the hat – becoming deluded, believing I know where I’m going to be tomorrow.

Assuming that I will “be”, at all, tomorrow.

Resting secure in the insane notion that I’ve got this life thing covered.

And then, I’ll start complaining again. Stressing about the lone $2.43 in my bank account. Agonizing about my prospects for finding a job when I’m done with school. Feeling the weight of the unfinished. Wondering how I’m failing my kids. Bitching at my mother. Cursing the halted traffic.

But for now, yeah, I’m free of that stuff, breathing a little deeper the air of this strange universe, welcoming the delta winds on my face, and my kids haven’t annoyed me in four days. Today, yes, I’m trembling in the joy and energy of existence, of my life.

Because it IS.

And so you see. I have no closure here, nothing to say. I’ve got no wit. Nothin’ clever up in here, today.

Just life, I guess.

May that always be enough.

And until we meet again, Uncle Jeffy, rest in sweet peace.

What the hell happened up there with all that alliteration? How cute.

Anyway, let’s talk about “push presents.”

Unclear on the concept? Doubting the little voice in your head whispering the likely definition? Can’t quite grasp the implications? Well, just for funsies, let’s borrow Wikipedia’s definition (this is a BLOG, after all, not some academic research paper)… “A push present (also known as a ‘push gift’ or ‘baby bauble’) is a present a new father gives a new mother when she gives birth to their child.”

Setting aside all criticism of the heteronormativity being displayed in the aforementioned definition, let me just say that if I hear the words “baby bauble” ever again I’m going to vomit on my keyboard without restraint.

Anyway, before I looked it up – you know, delved deep into investigative journalism for the sake of this profound post – I suspected I would hate the idea of a “push present.” Just call it a gut feeling. However, after reading the following drivel from “Linda Murray,” this gut feeling materialized into a concrete disdain for the entire concept of “push present,” and the distinct awareness that I would punch my husband in the nuts if he attempted to give me one.

I mean seriously, if THIS is what it is, I don’t want anything to do with it:

“According to Linda Murray, the executive editor of BabyCenter.com, ‘It’s more and more an expectation of moms these days that they deserve something for bearing the burden for nine months, getting sick, ruining their body. The guilt really gets piled on.’ Other sources trace the development of the present to the increased assertiveness of women, allowing them to ask for a present more directly, or the increased involvement of the men in pregnancy, making them more informed of the pain and difficulties of pregnancy and labor.”

OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD do you really think some GIFT is going to make up for the fact that I now pee on myself when I sneeze, my tits kick it near my belly, and my stomach  bulges like an overflowing cupcake? (Also, Linda Bite Me Murray, “ruining their body?” REALLY? Screw you.)

Oh, honey, yes, I just endured morning sickness, a pin-sized bladder, waddling and back pain for nine months, culminating in the most excruciating few hours of my life, during which time I rallied the strength of 10,000 women to push a gigantic baby out of a barely-participating vagina – I shit on a table, got hemorrhoids and rips in inhumane places, and I now face cracked nipples, dripping breastmilk, emotional turmoil, no sleep and a lifetime of guilt and responsibility [having just become somebody’s MOTHER]… but that white gold ring you got me? Oh, yes. That makes up for it. I now see how appreciated I am. I see that you totally “get it,” sweet cheeks. Thank GOODNESS I’m appreciated.

What do they think we’re fucking stupid?

On what planet does the purchasing of a trinket or furniture or jewelry indicate a man’s “involvement in pregnancy” or make them “more informed of the pain and difficulties of pregnancy and labor?”

You want to show me you care? You want to give me a “push present?” Here. How about one of these:

Love me. Go to work. Don’t cheat. Wash the fucking dishes. Take the newborn OUT OF THE HOUSE so I can actually sleep (cause the living room ain’t cuttin’ it sunshine). Understand that I need my mother more than I need you right now. Realize I won’t have sex with you for at least 2 months and possible 6 more after that. Let my friends come over. Don’t ask me what I “did all day.” Hold your baby. Wear your baby. Learn to put him to sleep. Stand by my side.

Love your child. Be a father. Sit with me for a moment and gaze at this perfect creation.

Spend the rest of your life as my partner and friend and lover, raising this little being we just created.

How’s that for a damn push present?

Parents.com suggests some “amazing” gifts for women who “rocked Labor & Delivery,” [and they suggest we should “start dropping hints” to our “hubs” – What is wrong with these people?!] such as rings with the kid’s birthstone, necklaces, a fancy rocking arm chair, a family vacation, a big screen TV, and, my personal favorite: PLAYDATE CALLING CARDS.

I can’t even inch near the topic of “playdate calling cards.” Not enough time.

As often happens, I believe I can best summarize my feelings about receiving one of these items as a “push present” with a graph, or two.

First of all, it appears that a push present is intended to show the mother what a badass she is, to congratulate her on a job well done. Well, here’s my thought on that:

And really, here’s the bottom line: there’s nothing wrong with buying somebody a gift. I get that. HOWEVER, the reality of the situation, for me, is as follows: I don’t care what my husband were to buy me, it would not mean shit next to the newborn baby I am holding in my arms.

I made a pie chart to demonstrate.

You feel me here? I almost find it demeaning…as if some item, some material good, some PURCHASE could “thank me” for carrying and birthing a human being, for becoming a mother, for the courage and strength and power contained in a woman giving birth, could recognize the sacrifice I have made and will make for the rest of my life…and, perhaps most offensively, that this item would do so more powerfully than the child herself.

So yeah. For now, I’ll just stick with the baby, as the greatest fucking “baby bauble” in the world.

wretch.

1. Sorry I didn’t write Sunday. Or yesterday. Sunday we were visiting my brother and his family. Yesterday I was busy vomiting and shaking with fever all day.
2. Good times.
3. So of course I can barely remember what happened last week, except for one thing: The Dog Whisperer visited our house. Okay FINE not THE Dog Whisperer (as in Cesar), but clearly A dog whisperer. In like 4 minutes she had our maniacal puppy lying submissively at her feet, awaiting the next command.
4. I’m like “HUH? What the fuck did you just do?” And she’s like “He knows I’m the pack leader.” And I say “Sooooo…how do I become the pack leader?” And she responds “Well, you have to demonstrate that you’re in charge, have things under control. In control, but not in a fear-inducing way. Leaders are always fair, calm, collected. They never yell.”
5. And then I looked at her sadly and said “Houston, we have a problem.” Because as you all know, I’m loud and slightly spastic and DEFINITELY a yeller. We all have our faults. Mine has always been a penchant for losing my shit. But I’ve been practicing. The leash is particularly helpful. Particularly on Georgia. JUST KIDDING.
6. You know what else I suck at? Returning library books. Does anybody EVER return library books on time? I mean I just NEVER DO IT. I try. I plan. I put it in my calendar. And then I don’t do it. I’ve gotten to the point that I no longer care about the late fees. I’ve convinced myself I’m supporting the library and so it’s money well spent. WHAT THE HELL?
7. Here’s another seemingly simple thing I just can’t manage to grasp: bringing shit in from the car. I mean that’s simple, right? Every time I bring something out to the car (or the kids do), when I get home I bring it BACK IN THE HOUSE. Right? No problemo. Except there is a problemo. There’s a huge freaking problemo.
8. I can’t seem to make that actually happen. I can’t do it until the crap on the floor is actually LEVEL with the seats and I can’t take it anymore so I lose my shit and yell until the kids help me and the car gets cleaned. You see? Natural born leader.
9. I’m serious. The only reason I bring groceries in is because I can’t handle the thought of wasting all that money on food going bad. Plus, we need to eat.
10. Also, since it appears to be “confessional Tuesday,” check out this dynamic thought process:

Thought 1, occurs while vomiting: “This sucks.”

Thought 2: “I just vomited all the food and water I ate today and clearly I won’t be consuming anything else for quite a long time.”

Thought 3: “Hmmmm, in the interest of weight loss, I guess this doesn’t suck THAT bad.”

So yeah, when Mac got home I declared “The bad news is I vomited all day. The good news is I totally benefited from temporary bulimia.”

I believe he muttered a statement along the lines of “there’s something wrong with you.” Strangely, I hear that often.

And it may be true, but don’t tell the puppy. He thinks I’m the fucking leader.

No, he doesn’t. He thinks I’m the spaz who can’t clean her car, control her children or stop puking.

Win.

1. I’m not saying the puppy is bad, I’m just saying if he does what he’s supposed to do IT’S A FUCKING MIRACLE.
2. But I love him. At least I think I do. No, I do. For sure I do. I love him. But perhaps he could just move beyond this whole jumping on the kids and nipping stage.
3. Somebody explain this to me: Sometimes I don’t go to the gym for awhile, which makes me feel like crap, and because I feel like crap, I eat a bunch of food I shouldn’t, which makes me feel even more like crap and even less like going to the gym, which is the only thing that will make me not feel like crap anymore.
4. If nobody can relate to #3 I’m gonna cry.
5. A couple days ago I found Rocket duct taped (with flame tape no less) to a chair, complete with a sock in his mouth and his hands tied together. As I told Ava, I totally appreciate the sentiment.
6. We went on another camping trip this weekend, but this time we went with some friends. Had a great time but I took no pictures, because I forgot my camera. Could have taken them with my phone, but one of the great joys of camping is not having a phone for a few days…so I have no proof of the wonderfulness.
7. But I have to tell you where we went because it was amazing: Sly Park Recreation Area near Pollock Pines. It’s on a lake (that’s warm enough to swim in), there are bike trails everywhere and there’s a 25-foot high waterfall that you can jump off of into the swimming hole below.
8. Rocket and Ava both jumped off that waterfall. Trip out. I didn’t get to go because I was back at the camp with Georgia, but I was proud nonetheless. Next time, I’m doing it. I love heights. No really, I do. I adore being way the hell up there, looking down. I’ve always been the first to jump off rocks, cliffs, etc. That may because I love heights, or it may be because I’m not too bright. Whatevs.
9. You know what drives me nuts? When people’s kids act like little shit heads and the mother’s like “Oh please let me validate your entitled, spoiled-rotten bullshit because you’re my kid and you’re perfect!” I mean they don’t say that exactly, of course, but that’s what it is. Ya feel me? Like the kid throws a tantrum because he thinks he’s been wronged and the mother backs the kid up without even knowing what went down…just assumes her kid is justified. And then the kid turns 21 and can’t go to school, work or do a damn thing for himself and the mother’s all “wow! That’s so strange! I did everything to empower him!”
10. No, you didn’t. You taught him that his tantrums are valid, reliable ways to get what he wants and that the world should cater to HIM and his whims, even if they are ridiculous…because…because why? Because he’s him and he’s perfect.

In other news, this morning the dog had diarrhea all over his crate. Twenty minutes later the coffee pot overflowed all over the kitchen counter. While brushing my teeth, a bristle struck a nerve of an apparently unwell tooth, because all the sudden I got a stab of the most excruciating pain up my face. It’s been sore ever since. And this afternoon, while driving Rocket to his guitar lesson, I got a ticket on the freeway. Why? Because I was breaking the law.

Nevertheless, this is one of those days that I appreciate for one reason and one reason only: because any day that follows one like this WILL NOT SUCK THAT BAD.

Yes, he’s smiling under there

the only picture I took. As usual, Georgia is immaculate & wearing shoes.