I don’t usually write about my kids and their illnesses because let’s be honest, it’s boring. But I gotta tell you about poor Georgia. Well, and I guess, me.

She’s had a fever for five days. We were told that 4 days is the longest time a virus will cause a fever, so we tried taking her in yesterday (day 4) but the urgent care was closed. We took her today and it turns out the baby girl has a urinary tract infection and possibly a kidney infection.

They found this out by inserting a catheter in her.

And I wasn’t there.

I was at school. It’s a long story. The timing was off. I couldn’t get there. My mom was with her.

As I talked to the doctor to approve the procedure, I wanted to die. I thought of my baby in that office, in pain, without her mama. I thought of the agony. I thought of the fear. I thought of her thoughts. I saw her tears and heard her cries and felt them in the depths of my soul.

And even though the “procedure” was only five seconds, and even though I raced home, and even though I held her for hours, kissed her forehead as she rested on my chest…despite all this, beyond it all, I raged.

I raged because I wasn’t there. I raged because I’ve made the choice to be in school. I raged because WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?

Why wasn’t I there? What is more important than that?

It’s so hard, this gig. This working-while-parenting. This education-while-parenting. Sometimes it just doesn’t feel worth it. Sometimes I think maybe we should just stay poor. And I should just drop my “goals.”

But then again, I’m not sure I can.

I wonder sometimes if it were easier to be a mother back in the 19^th century when things were simpler. When a woman had babies and worked in the home and made a home. When she knew what her life was and it was all there was, and there wasn’t such a pull of “I could be more” and “I need to achieve” and “I must make something of myself.” Being a mother and building a home was making something of oneself. And indeed it is.

Yes, I realize there were women who had all that drive, way back then, just like I do. And I realize women couldn’t vote and that ain’t right…and duh. There were problems – not trying to glorify anything.

But society was different. Society didn’t sell the particular lie that we’ve been sold: THAT WE CAN DO IT ALL.

Because we cannot. We cannot do it all. There is always a cost. There is always a sacrifice. We cannot be working mothers and fulltime mothers …fulltime mothers and high-achieving career women…without a cost.

And the cost is today.

The cost is a toddler on a table in a doctor’s office, enduring horrifying pain without the arms and breast and whispers of her mother.

That is my cost.

And it hurts.

Fuck all that feminist stuff. Screw the politics. You know I’m so left I’ve almost come around to the right. That ain’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about what it’s like to attempt to do it all. The on-the-ground experience of trying to have a career and raise a family at the same damn time.

And realizing that it just isn’t working.

Why do I keep going? Why don’t I quit? Why don’t I drop grad school and be with my kids?

Because there’s a part of me that wants more. There’s a part of me that has always wanted a career in teaching. Because it’s the “me” separate and apart from my kids. It’s a “me” I love. It’s a “me” I can’t just abandon, either.

But it’s a “me” I resent. It’s a “me” I want to destroy sometimes. Shut her up. Silence her. Become that woman complete in her home, content in the currents of her daily life, fulfilled by the place of her family, rooted in love, in children, in this.

And yet I am not. I am not that woman.

And so I face the costs. I endure this pain. The pain of my arms and breast and whispers falling useless, in that moment of separation, as they frantically reach for my child who needs me. Needs me when I am not there.

I would say I’m sorry, Georgie, but the words fall useless, too.

1. On Tuesday night, Rocket dislocated Georgia’s elbow by “helping” her do a “handstand.” Thankfully the doctor just popped it back in but ohmygod the crying and agony she went through. How do people hurt children? I cannot understand it.
2. An hour into it I felt drained and exhausted and paralyzed with powerlessness and I would have done ANYTHING to stop that little one from hurting. I just don’t get how a person could inflict suffering on a kid, purposely. Repeatedly. Do they not feel the misery I did? And if they do, how the hell do they live with themselves?
3. On a happier note, on Wednesday I turned 33 and my family threw me a little surprise party. My brother and his family drove 2 hours to be there. A couple of my closest friends were there. I was struck by the love.
4. On Wednesday night Georgia got sick AGAIN and has had a fever for FOUR FUCKING DAYS. We’re taking her to the same urgent care we were at on Tuesday. They’re gonna call CPS.
5. Yesterday I spent 14 (that’s right. FOURTEEN) hours grading midterm essay exams. As long as I live I will never use the words “therefore,” “clearly,” or “significant” again.
6. Clearly, I’m full of shit.
7. Speaking of “full of shit,” I’m really serious that we need a sarcasm font. Let’s all agree on one (and by “all” I mean “humanity”). That way the fucktards who read my writing and get their panties all knotted up thinking I’m serious will have access to that fun little thing we call “a sense of humor.”
8. Have you ever noticed that people who don’t have kids are by far the most judgmental of those of us who do? I think that’s weird. I mean when I haven’t done something I realize I haven’t done that thing. WOW. Deep. And therefore, my opinion arises out of speculation, not experience, and as such, it doesn’t hold much weight. Though I may share it with my friends when nobody’s looking, I SURE AS HELL wouldn’t bestow my uninformed opinion upon somebody who has actually done the thing in question. [mostly for fear of looking like an ass.] That would be like me telling a person how to raise twins, or Mac how to be an ironworker…”Honey, you’re holding your welder incorrectly…” (is it actually called a “welder?”) or him telling me how to have a baby “oh sweetheart, you’re pushing all wrong. Let me tell ya how it’s done.” Insane I say. Insane.
9. Damnit. Also used “therefore.”
10. So if my baby doesn’t get better in the next 5 hours I’m going to turn myself into CPS for some sort of vacation. (that was sarcastic.)

By the way, I just gotta tell you readers that I think you’re amazing. I’m serious. I write a post and then I get these freaking incredible comments that say it better than I did. And then, when some psycho comments, we all rally around and cyber-kick their ass.

We are BFFs. We are. Can’t be helped.

Check out the pillow Ava made me for my birthday. It’s a “sleeping” pillow that you hang from the door. One side says “Welcome,” the other side says this:

The kid gets me.

Have a great week, everybody.

Sometimes, I know my kids are being really annoying. It’s like totally clear. For example, running in restaurants. Screaming in libraries. Beating on other children. Flailing in chairs at somebody else’s dinner table. Not saying “hello” when somebody walks in the room.

Et Cetera.

In these instances, it’s clear that I must engage, and I do so. I’ve heard of parents who never say “no” to their children, but instead find ways to lovingly accept whatever horrifying shit their kids are currently engaged in.

Yeah, I don’t do that. Maybe someday, after I’ve reached enlightenment, I will become one of those parents. Then again, maybe not.

I also know when my kids are not being annoying. Well, not THAT annoying (cause let’s be honest, they’re pretty much always somewhere on the spectrum). You know, those moments when they’re just hanging out, kids being kids. And maybe there’s volume and mess and chaos, and my delicate sensibilities are being assaulted, but nobody’s getting pummeled or maimed and they are clearly within the bounds of civility.

However, things are often not that simple, because, of course, there is the GRAY AREA.

To illustrate, I made a graph:

I hope that helped.

As you can see, my kids’ behavior generally falls into the Gray Area. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to parent in the gray area. I’m confused by the behavior that falls between acceptable and totally fucking unacceptable. For example, sitting at a table in a restaurant talking and eating is acceptable. Making straw wrapper spit wads and using your spoon to launch them at strangers is totally fucking unacceptable. However, what about making straw wrapper spit wads and launching them a few inches? Is that acceptable?

GRAY AREA.

Running in a park is acceptable. Running in restaurants is totally fucking unacceptable. But what about running down hotel halls in the middle of the day?

GRAY AREA.

Final example: Playing with toys in a friend’s living room is acceptable. Throwing those toys at their toddler’s head is totally fucking unacceptable. But what about rolling around on the living room floor loudly repeating Phineas and Ferb lines and squealing? Irritating, but perhaps acceptable. Clearly annoying people a little, but perhaps within the bounds of being a kid. Perhaps those adults need to mellow the hell out and realize kids are annoying.

Goddamn gray area.

You see, here’s the thing. I am not a parent who lets her kid do whatever he or she wants because I don’t want to squelch their inner child and creativity. Though I appreciate those sentiments, I don’t have the patience. Just keepin’ it real.

So I sometimes direct their behavior. I do. However, I am not a Nazi controller parent either, and well, yes, I guess it’s true, I don’t want to beat their inner child into subservience and eerily good-behavior. Perfectly behaved children scare me. I wonder how they got so contained, being that curiosity and exploration and messy discovery are the hallmarks of a kid being a kid. And perhaps, of all learning. I want my kids to push boundaries. Fuck the system. Rage against the machine.

HOWEVER.

Where the hell is the line? There is no line. There is only one giant obscure GRAY AREA with no discernible lines.

I think I need lines.

But there are none, and every time people attempt to draw them for me I get irritated and combative, like “who the fuck are you to tell me how to parent my kids?” I reject your lines!

It’s complicated being me.

And so I parent in the gray area. I kick it in the borderlands. The frontier.

Wondering.

Always wondering…

Do I act? Do I redirect? Do I engage?

Or

Do I step back and breathe, realizing I’m being impatient and intolerant and controlling?

Am I shoving my grown-up limitations and old-person tendencies on these children, blocking them from the freedom to learn and create and explore?

Or am I teaching them how to behave? How to be citizens? How to be sensitive to others?

Oh whatever. I don’t fucking know.

We watched a play about Tom Edison. In one of his childhood explorations he inadvertently burned down his family’s barn. Totally fucking unacceptable behavior.

And yet, he was learning about light, which eventually evolved into the invention of the light bulb.

Guess in that case, he illuminated the gray area.

Ha.

1. As I write this, Georgia is performing her newest trick: a full-blown temper tantrum. She is standing here red-faced and furious, breaking glass with those “I’m really really angry” piercing crippling squeal screams. I am not elated about this. In fact, I feel a little like moving out.
2. You’ll note, however, that I’m writing this post instead of getting up and doing anything about that tantrum. That is one of the joys of tantrums. It’s one of the few times in parenting when it’s actually appropriate to sit there and ignore your child.
3. I went to a party last night with some family friends who are Mexican. We were the only non-Mexicans there. There was a Mariachi band, Corona, tequila, about 17 zillion children, grandparents, aunts, uncles, teenagers, Pozole and tacos. All partying, dancing, eating. Gonna be honest. Kinda wish I were Mexican.
4.  I have reached a point of laziness and irritation with crap in my house that I throw away small toys rather than put them where they belong. You know, the occasional Lincoln Log or My Little Pony or pretty much anything plastic. Except for Legos. I do not throw away Legos. Legos are the only things my kids actually play with more than once. A year. Or ever.
5. I have so many blog posts I want to write but just no time to actually write them. I need one evening a week where everybody leaves my house and I have nothing to do but sit and write. I should stop dreaming about things that will never happen.
6. Today at the gym, a friend of mine and I were talking about things we’d rather do than go to the gym. She said “I’d rather sit on the couch, eat Mexican food and drown in silence.” For obvious reasons, I adore this woman.
7. If Facebook ads are targeted, why do they keep putting up ads for “Napa Valley Rehab?” Come ON, Facebook, that was so three years ago.
8. Tomorrow I give a 20 minute lecture to an American Literature class of 125 undergrads. It’s not that I’m scared, it’s just that I want to vomit when I think about it.
9. I don’t really ever endorse anything on this blog (except bad parenting and swear words), but if you are in the Sacramento area, go see “Young Tom Edison” at the B Street Theater. I went with Rocket on Friday and it was spectacular. Hilarious, engaging, fascinating. A real story of creativity and free-thinking, but also the reality of flawed human nature. They didn’t portray Edison as some super-human god, but rather a complex person with faults and struggles, who was obviously a genius. Seriously, spend the money and go. Worth it. (Also it was short, so you could bring a pretty little kid (only 1.5 hours)).
10. When you tell Georgia “I love you,” she now responds “wuv oooo” and I die from the cuteness. Almost makes up for the tantrum situation. ALMOST.

Have a great week. If I’m not back in a few days you’ll know I didn’t survive the lecture.

Kiss.

I do things on a somewhat regular basis that cause me to question my qualifications for parenthood.

For example, I sometimes contribute to the truancy of my children. I’ll take them out of school early or bring them late or have them miss a day or two for last-minute beach trips or jaunts to San Francisco or pretty much no compelling reason at all.

It’s not that I think school is unimportant. Obviously not. I mean shit, I’m a grad student, clearly I don’t think it’s a complete waste of time.

It’s just that I have a hard time convincing myself that sitting in a classroom with 20 other 4^th-graders is more important than a trip to the ocean with your family.

This week I pulled Ava out of school for 3 days because it was my Spring break and I felt like cruising down South to visit my best friend Claire, who I’ve known since 2^nd grade. She lives in Central California, near San Luis Obispo, and we went. The husband had to work, so I took all three kids by myself, knowing that I’d be hanging with another mother, who would help me.

I felt a little guilty for taking Ava out. But I’ll be honest, it was worth it. At least I think it was. Maybe she’ll end up in therapy because her mother was a flake, but alas, nobody’s perfect.

There is something remarkable about a best friend since childhood. There is something sacred and wonderful about a person who isn’t “family” but has known you longer than most people on the planet. Family HAS to love you (well, at least in my family), but a best friend? Ah, they’re there because they want to be with you. They chose you. They don’t have to be there. But they are.

When we were 7, Claire and I played dolls and “restaurant” and Barbies in my bedroom. We had a pet bug named “Shiloh” who lived under a Monopoly hotel.

When we were 10, we busted into the neighbor’s house one boring summer afternoon, until we realized we had just done something illegal and we freaked out and bolted. When we got home we sprayed hairspray on the stucco wall of her house and lit it on fire. Both of those activities were my idea.

When we were 12, we went roller skating every Saturday and contemplated boys from afar.

When we were 13, we got dressed up and Waltzed with her younger twin cousins in her grandma’s living room, while she drank bourbon and smoked cigarettes and instructed our dance moves.

When we were 15, we stole her grandma’s Cadillac in Santa Clara and drove around.

When we were 17, we did the same but added beer.

When we were 18, we gazed into the eyes of Claire’s newborn baby and wondered what the hell had happened.

When we were 21, we drank Bloody Mary’s at 7am in Vegas.

When we were 25, we didn’t talk much, because I was drunk and lost and too full of self-hatred to reach out to the people who knew me before I was a failure.

When we were 29, I got sober and drove to her house 5 hours away and asked her to forgive me and love me again. And it became clear she had never stopped.

And now, at 32, we get together and take care of kids and talk until 2 in the morning and laugh like we did when we were 10 years old, giggling in the back of our parents’ cars, sisters who chose one another.

I guess this week I just needed my friend. Maybe Ava should have gone to school.

Then again, maybe not.

We went to Morro Bay

and Georgia contemplated god, err, I mean the ocean.

we missed daddy

We went to Avila and it was 73 degrees and glory.

Georgie wore her new bathing suit and we all died from the cuteness.

Rocket dug "the biggest hole pretty much in the world"

And made this face, which kills me.

doing what big sister does...

Still a little girl...

Yep, it was definitely worth it.

Claire and Georgia.