So last week I didn’t write any blog posts because my computer broke, but the week before I didn’t write any blog posts because I was too pissed off to write.

And what, you ask, happened to piss me off to such an extent?

Well, now, that’s the fun part. Because nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nada.

Unless you count THAT THING. That thing that happens once a month. That thing that turns me, within seconds, into a stark raving mad specimen of humanity – a walking nutjob.

I’m fine. And then OMG I’M NOT.

That thing that makes me want to punch strangers in the throat for chewing too loudly, cry, scream, and eat all simple carbohydrates in a five-mile radius. That thing that makes me question the meaning of life while weeping at a car commercial and screaming at my kids to please STOP MAKING NOISE. To which they respond “Mama, I’m reading.”

Oh yeah. You know what I’m talking about. They call it “PMS.”

For the record, I think that is the stupidest name IN THE WORLD for such a thing.

I have some better ones. More descriptive. Accurate.

Such as: “Pissed off, Maniacal and Starving” or “Pending Marital Separation” or “Psychotic, Melodramatic, and Seething,” or “Pardon My Satanic-nature.” Those are just some ideas.

You think I’m kidding? You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not.

“Pre-menstrual Syndrome…” Bullshit. That sounds so innocuous, like it ain’t that big of a deal. Well I’m here to speak for those of us women who TURN INTO MONSTERS for a few days each month and pretty much have no capacity to change it. I’m always slightly amazed my husband hasn’t left me after that “special time.”

Men, listen up. This shit applies to you too.

At any rate, check it out: once a month, about a week before my period, I’m sitting there minding my own business when all the sudden, out of freaking nowhere, drifts into my reality a dark, cold haze. It enters every cell of my skin, right through to my bones. I feel it sinking in, a discomfort. An irritation. Like a fly buzzing just outside my ear. I feel it course through my veins. An anxiety. An angst. And I want to break things.

When it hits my ears they become more sensitive. When it hits my brain it becomes confused, scattered, anxious. When it hits my eyes they begin to only see the shit that annoys me. They see only negative.

And when it hits my heart, my heart gets heavy. It becomes a thousand pounds. My emotions burst from it in quick flashes of pain and agony and existential contemplation. What IS the meaning of life? Why AM I here? WHY do I yell at my kids so much?

But mostly…WHY IS MY HUSBAND SO FUCKING ANNOYING?

Why am I married in the first place?

Why did I ever get married?

Why do I have kids? Do I like my kids? Why am I so fat? I wish I were 20. Why aren’t I 20?

I need a scone.

And always there’s that FLY. It’s buzzing. It won’t shut up. It MUST SHUT UP.

FUCK ME.

It’s never shutting up.

It’s here. “People Must Surrender,” because I’m fucking insane. For a few days, I am insane. Women who get PMS like me should get a break from their lives. We should get a handicapped parking spot. We should get special pills and massages and a camp or something with nothing but silent people, trees and hot tubs.

Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because once a month:

1. I am not responsible for the shit that comes out of my mouth. I don’t even know who the fuck is saying it but I KNOW IT AIN’T ME. That bitch is crazy.
2. I am not responsible for the shit I put into my mouth (which makes me not responsible for the stuff going in or out of my mouth, which is slightly alarming).
3. I want to crawl in a hole and weep and die, though it’s unclear to me exactly why.
4. I cannot recall why anything in my life is the way it is and I’m pretty sure it’s ALL WRONG. (But there’s nothing you can do to fix it so don’t even try because it’s never getting better and that’s just the way it is you fucktard.)
5. I am no use to my husband (because it’s all his fault).
6. I am no use to my children (because they’re so irritating I can’t spend more than 5 minutes near them).
7. I am no use to my boss (because it’s hard to think when you suddenly realize your life isn’t worth living).
8. I am no use in class (because my neighbor’s face is irritating me somehow).
9. I am bloated. And nobody likes that. But I can’t drink water or get to the gym or do anything other than eat simple carbohydrates and sugar and caffeine because I’m comforting myself with food and beverage even though I’m going to regret it and I’m getting fatter by the fucking minute but OMG there’s that FLY and it WON’T STOP BUZZING PEOPLE.

Dude. No really. Let’s start a PMS camp.

Some medical site describes the emotional PMS symptoms as follows: “tension, irritability, mood swings or crying spells, anxiety, depression.”

I can summarize this in everyday language, and it pretty much summarizes my whole PMS experience, played out repeatedly, day after day, until suddenly, as fast as it came…it’s gone.

“Fuck you you irritate me please don’t leave me ever my GOD why are you so annoying no wait I’m sorry I’m such a bitch I want to move to Borneo forever oh my god I’m hungry.”

It’s good to be back. In more ways than one.

So I hesitated writing this post because I don’t really have anything helpful to say on the topic of bullying.

But then I remembered this entire blog is devoted to unhelpfulness, so I figured “what the hell” and I’m writing it.

I have no particular insight into what makes a kid mean, no meaningful perspective on what it is that makes one kid a rampant teaser and another kid the victim of it.

And I don’t know what I’ve done to make my kids more the “victims” than the perpetrators. Perhaps I’ve done nothing. Perhaps they are the perpetrators and I just don’t know it.

Although to be honest I doubt the latter, mostly because they tend to come home telling me about how they have been made fun of, and how they don’t understand it, or they tell me about how mean some kids are to other kids, and how it’s sad. And they are visibly disturbed.

But I guess it’s critical for me to say that my kids aren’t angels. They aren’t perfect. They aren’t kind and patient and understanding all the time. I’ve read blogs by women who think their kids shit rainbows.

I am not that woman.

But I am pretty confident in asserting that my kids are not mean. I watch them with their friends. I have never had a complaint from any friend, teacher or acquaintance telling me my kid was involved in teasing or bullying, but I have seen both of them in tears, more than once, on account of other kids making fun of them in a repeated, disturbing way.

With Ava, the teasing has become sexual in nature and I’ve had to raise some serious hell in her school.

And when these moments occur (you can read about the saddest one HERE), when I’m watching the pain in my kids’ eyes, doing my best to trudge through it with them, comfort and hold them, I wonder, really truly wonder, what it is exactly that makes some kids bullies and some kids not.

Are they born that way? I doubt it.

Is it their parents? Are they neglectful? Are these kids vying for power and attention at school because they have none at home? I don’t know.

Are they abused? Does meanness run in their families? Are they teased by their parents? Are they criticized and harassed? Maybe.

Is it television? I don’t really see how that would work, but whatever, most bad shit can be blamed on television so I thought I’d throw that one in.

Or are they simply not taught right from wrong and respect for others? This one seems the most plausible to me. Maybe they aren’t “born bad” and they don’t have excessively horrid parents, but maybe those parents have not given their children a moral compass, a sense of “okay” and “not okay in any circumstance.” And so, they think something is funny and they just roll with it. And maybe they start and the other kids laugh and it’s exhilarating and fun and empowering, and nobody’s ever explained that that particular laugh is at the expense of another. Another’s heart. Another’s well-being. Another’s feeling of acceptance. Another’s RIGHT TO JUST BE.

And when I think about it, there is one thing my husband and I absolutely do not tolerate under any circumstances, and that’s the act of bullying in our home. My kids are not allowed to use their size or their power to dominate a sibling or anybody else. When I see it I make them set it right immediately, no matter where we are, and we talk about why it was wrong. Even grabbing a toy out of Georgia’s hand is unacceptable.

We don’t call names.

We don’t make sweeping insults that slash another’s character.

And we recognize when we have hurt each other. We watch them cry. We feel what we have done and we FUCKING APOLOGIZE.

In these routines I’m trying to teach my kids some morality. Some sense of “it ain’t right to make somebody cry because I feel like it or it’s fun or I want something.”

I am responsible for my words. And the consequences of my words.

And my actions. And the consequences of my actions.

And it isn’t right to GAIN ANYTHING by hurting somebody else, by violating their rights, by making them feel small and powerless and alone.

Or, maybe they’re just born that way.

I don’t know. I guess I just want my kids to obey what is probably the only solid, universal advice in the history of the world:

“Don’t be a dick.”

And if you can, maybe support each other occasionally, even people you don’t know, like you would your little sister just learning to walk, as you plod along this rugged path we all walk, stumbling, falling, grabbing for the hand of somebody who might actually give a shit.

1. The problem with writing these posts on Sunday is that I really can’t remember what I did on Monday or Tuesday or, come to think of it, Wednesday through Friday. So I sit down and reflect and all I get is “I did busy stuff, like I do every week.”
2. A few moments always stand out, however, like one I had at the gym a few days ago. I was on the elliptical alongside my friend and we were chatting (which so vastly improves cardio workouts), and suddenly this angry-looking female on my right taps my arm. “Will you lower your voice, please?” She said it with a glare and a really disgusted voice. My initial thought was “fuck you Satan,” but I didn’t say that for fear of getting kicked out of the gym. So I stared for a moment too long and mumbled “whatever,” then proceeded to increase my voice level at least two octaves.
3. This is bad behavior. I would get mad at my kids for such behavior. But she was JUST SUCH A BITCH. She glared at me for the duration of my workout. My friend (being significantly more reasonable than her companion), suggested we relocate. But I didn’t want to. That would ruin it.
4. Next time I’m going to ask myself WWJD? and turn the other cheek.
5. Speaking of assholes (the woman, not Jesus), I’m gearing up to write a blog post about what turns kids into bullies. In the past two weeks both my kids have been subjected to horrible bastard children (Ava has been straight sexually harassed at school – don’t worry. I REGULATED), and I’ve really started wondering what it is that turns kids toward that kind of behavior. I mean my kids are annoying, and often misbehave, but they are not MEAN. They are very, very far from mean. Ya feel me? Totally different deal.
6. Have you ever noticed men don’t use windshield wipers? I find that odd. I always have to tell my husband “dude. Water all over windshield. WIPERS.” I thought it was just my husband, but via a friend’s FB post, I have since learned it’s like a male species problem.
7. We currently have two cats, two guinea pigs and a dog. How the hell did that happen? It’s like a fucking menagerie in here. Damn cute furry things. Get me every time.
8. Yesterday I was assaulted by a childless judgmental female wonder. Our conversation went something like this:

Childless wonder: “Hi Janelle, I remember you from grad school last year.”

Me: “Oh, hi!”

[Bunch of banter about whatever, leading to this]:

Me: “Well I have three kids so I’m super busy and tired. Plus I’m still in grad school and I work part-time as a consultant.”

Childless wonder: “Wow, three kids?! That’s a lot.”

Me: “Yes. Yes it is.”

Childless wonder: “What does your husband do?”

Me: “He’s an ironworker and he works on his father’s ranch.”

Childless wonder, with fifteen layers of insinuated judgment: “And you can afford all those kids?”

[And here I begin realizing I’m talking to a smelly pirate hooker.]

Me: “Well, yes, sort of. I mean, we eat and wear clothes and stuff.”

Childless wonder: “Huh, yes. But sending all three of them to college will be difficult. You aren’t having any more are you?”

Me, with palpable sarcasm and disdain: “Yes, yes we are. We are having as many kids as possible. You see, the more kids we have the more we get from the government in the form of welfare and food stamps and medical care. My goal is ten.”

And then I walked away.

Next time, I will ask myself WWJD? and turn the other cheek.

But she was JUST SUCH A BITCH.

Here’s a picture of one of the kids I [apparently] can’t afford. He probably would have behaved better. No, for sure he would have. When the bar is low, success is pretty easy.

For some reason, I still get excited about upcoming holidays, even though they pretty much always suck, at least a good portion of them. I anticipate what the day is going to look like even though IT HAS NEVER ONCE ACTUALLY LOOKED LIKE THAT.

There is a big, scary disconnect between what I imagine and what actually happens. Always is.

And yet, it surprises me every time.

Take Easter for example. Here’s how it went in my head:

I wake to the sweet sound of the kids in my bed, “Mama! Daddy! It’s Easter!” I feel energized and blessed.

We all hop out of bed (haha, “hop”, get it? like the Easter bunny?) and run into the kitchen, where we see three beautiful baskets of small, fair trade wooden toys I bought the week before, along with some raw organic chocolate.

I take pictures as my kids open their baskets, basking in the joy that is family life.

We eat a nutritious breakfast as a family.

We dye eggs together, laughing and playing.

Everybody takes a bath and gets dressed in their Easter outfits, anticipating the arrival of relatives and the trip to Grandma’s house.

My family arrives and we all stare at the beautiful dressed-up kids, taking pictures happily in the front yard and smiling.

We do a little egg hunt in the yard, the kids skipping around with their baskets in the sun. I take pictures.

Finally, we all pile in the car with grins and giggles to cruise over to Grandma’s house, where we will eat lamb and ham and 75 desserts.

The ONLY PART of that that actually happened was the last part of the last sentence.

Check it out. Here’s how it happened in reality:

I wake to sound of Georgia yelling “mama,” glance at the time and say “holy mother of god.” I bang on Mac and demand he get up, realizing almost immediately, of course, that that ain’t gonna work, cause all three of them are up. I feel like I’d rather saw off my left arm than get out of bed. I remember: “Fuck, it’s Easter,” which means I must behave, so I pretend I’m happy and I get up.

I roll out of bed in a confused haze and stumble into the kitchen, where we see three beautiful baskets of fifty-five different types of candy from Target and a few crap toys made in China. I didn’t have time to order the little wooden wonders I had in mind, nor did I have time to get the raw organic chocolate from the co-op, so I filled the baskets with stuff from Target, at 1am Easter morning.

I try to find my camera but can’t, so I just watch them carefully opening their baskets but mostly focus on making coffee.

They eat Fun-dip for breakfast. We eat eggs and toast. Georgia starts assaulting everybody’s baskets, diving for choke-able chocolate items and making the other kids squeal.

I find my camera and begin the photographic mission from hell, which will continue all morning. “Kids. Sit together. Let’s take a picture with your baskets.” They ignore me. I get louder. “KIDS, NOW!” They all sit together but one of them is looking away at any given moment.

Suddenly in a moment of terror I realize my family is coming over in approximately 4 hours and it looks like our house has been hit by an Easter-vomiting tornado. The panic begins. I demand immediate action. We spend the next 2 hours attempting to fix about six months of inattention to the details of our home, such as, the tops of bookshelves and corners.

By this point I’m beginning to hate my life. I’m racing around like a fucking banshee in attempt to bring my house even NEAR the point of acceptable, and while I’m doing so, my kids are taking turns rolling on the ground singing the Good-Luck-Charlie theme song and/or avoiding me. By the time I’m done with my cleaning rampage everybody wants to off themselves.

MUST DYE EGGS.

We go outside and dye eggs for about 10 minutes, since we’re now running late. Rocket spends most of the time throwing the eggs at the back fence. Ava spends her time screaming at Rocket to stop throwing eggs at the back fence.

I look at the clock and see we have ONE FUCKING HOUR before my family arrives.

I gather them up, we race into the bathtub, I start ironing. I’m barking orders and things are getting tight. Nobody wants to bathe. I threaten great bodily harm if they don’t just do it NOW. All parenting skill has left the building. I am now in psycho get-the-kids-dressed-up-for-a-big-family-event mode.

Rocket doesn’t want a belt. Ava’s shoes don’t match. Georgia hates getting dressed. Finally I get them in their outfits.  I feel like a ran a 5K. (I have no idea what a 5K is, FYI.)

My family shows up. I need a few pictures of the kids before they ruin their outfits. I get them all outside by the bush. Rocket is scowling. Georgia is screaming. After every shot, Rocket bolts off and I look at Mac, mouthing the words “I’m gonna fucking kill ‘em.” Ava is the only one who participates. I love Ava.

We hide eggs. The kids find eggs. I can’t get any pictures because they’re running around like bats outta hell. I’m trying to keep Georgia away from the candy filled ones on account of the dress she’s wearing. I succeed, but only because I’m chasing her around like an eagle and prey – and it’s not fun.

Running late, feeling like I’ve already lived an entire day, we pile in the car to go to Grandma’s house, but not before we run around trying to locate everybody’s play clothes for later, last-minute must-have items (purses and hats and diapers and Matchbox cars). Finally, we all pile in the car with stress and bad attitudes and cruise over to Grandma’s house,

where we eat lamb and ham and 75 desserts.

You see how I bolded that last line?

That’s because I focus on the positive.

That’s me, always lookin’ at the bright side.

Here’s the rest of the bright side…and what will keep me going, looking forward to next Easter like a delusional idiot…

Rocket picked out his own outfit, of course, from head to toe.

THE ONE TIME GEORGIA SMILED

Until next year, people.

Happy Good Friday!

I have no idea what that means except that it’s the Friday before Easter. And something about meat. or fish. And Jesus.

Circle Time Rules

ANYWAY, let’s move on. Usually we have Circle Time! on Saturdays, but I’m livin’ on the edge and doing it on Friday. I used to do this weekly, but now I only do it when I have something fabulous to “share” — such as this song, “Lonely Boy,” by The Black Keys – and the fact that my baby girl is finally herself again.

Let’s all take a moment of silence in appreciation of strong-ass antibiotics and doctors who give a shit.

So, if you can watch this video without experiencing a profound improvement in your mood, then, well, I don’t know. But I’m not worried because I don’t think it’s possible.

I love this band, this song and THIS FUCKING GUY. He is a boss. I want to know him.

Watch, enjoy.

xo