Dear dudes who check out women’s asses and think nobody notices,

You know who you are. Don’t deny it. I saw one of you just the other day, and despite my glares and mouth agape at your conspicuousness and lack of class, you just kept on staring, which compels me to write you this letter, just to clear up what I was thinking, and what, perhaps, we’re all thinking. About you. You somewhat dirty man in your 50s.

Here’s what you did.

I was standing in a long line at a coffee shop. You were over at the end of the counter waiting for your drink. A young woman in jeans was standing at the register, ordering. Admittedly her curves didn’t suck. You also noticed this and decided to get a better look. So you backed up, took a few steps to the left to get an unobstructed view, and stared. Just STARED. Your eyes did not move from her ass. I stared at you. I kept staring at you. You didn’t notice. I tilted my head to one side like “for reals?” and wished I could bitch-slap you with my mind, for being an asshole.

I felt a pang for this woman, because she was just standing there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, a college student, ordering some coffee, and she became the object of whatever sick shit was rolling through your kinda-old-man brain. And you didn’t even have the decency to hide it.

You looked away for a minute. Then did it again. You were fixated. To me, you looked pathetic and creepy and almost violent with the forcefulness of your attention.

She walked over closer to you. You kept staring. I kept glaring.

The truth is I wanted to tell you you’re a fucking sleazebag slime ball, to so obviously lust after a woman at least 30 years younger than you, with no respect for her or anybody else. With no regard for who she may be as a human, or that perhaps she deserves a little privacy, or respect. That she’s somebody’s daughter and maybe mother.

And maybe you think we don’t notice. Maybe you think we can’t see what you’re doing as you undress her with your eyes and contemplate the beauty that will never be yours.

I was once the woman you dirt bags stared at, as most of us were, when I was young and thin and, um,  perky. But I ain’t anymore and I gotta tell you, it doesn’t really bother me that much. And now, I feel this weird motherly-like protective instinct for women who aren’t asking for it and yet become sex objects under the power of a masochistic gaze.

I have a feeling you don’t get it very often. I have a feeling you have a very small wee-wee.

I have a feeling you aren’t much of a man at all. You probably pay for it. You probably pay women to meet the expectations of your self-centered fantasies. It was clear you thought nothing of her beyond what she could offer you sexually. Everybody in the place was watching you gawk. My intuition was raging that you were not a man to be trusted.

So let me just say we all know, dude. We know what you’re doing and we know you’re a fucking loser. And, yes, we know your wee-wee is subpar at best.

That is all.

Signed,

Everybody else in the world.

Yesterday, Ava came home very upset. Like really upset. She was emotional and distraught and seemed overwhelmed and lost.

She explained that she had been betrayed by her friends…her “friends.” Not only had there been some flakiness surrounding the science fair (which Ava takes so seriously it sort of alarms me), she found out that two of the girls at her slumber party had snuck into her room and read her diary, after telling Ava to “please leave” because they were “talking about something private.”

She was absolutely betrayed and could not make sense of it on any level: why would they lie? Why would they hurt her like that? Don’t they really care about her? Aren’t they her friends?

As she asked these questions I did my regular searching-for-the-right-thing-to-say routine, in which I inevitably realize I am not cut out for this shit and should not be trusted with somebody’s emotional development.

I listen to her feelings and empathize and commiserate. I feel the urge to say supportive, encouraging, hoo-rah good-mothering comments to her, to boost her spirits and make her feel better…but I just can’t. I can’t get them out. I hear them in my head: “Oh, maybe they were having a bad day. Be a bigger person. Look for the good in them.” Blah blah fucking blah.

But just like in The Stuffed Seal Incident, I can’t bring myself to say them, mostly because that crap never worked for me or helped me and it pretty much always just pisses me off. All that positive self-talk crap.

So instead, I say the truth.

“Ava, people suck. People are self-interested and self-centered. Every person, no matter who they are or how much they love you or you love them or how good they seem, WILL, inevitably, at some point, let you down. They will fail to meet your expectations. They will hurt you. This is not because they are bad people, but rather because they are human. And as humans, they are flawed.”

Maybe that seems pessimistic or negative or defeatist, but I don’t really think it is. And here’s why: because it’s true.

It’s reality.

And the truth, in my opinion, is where the freedom lies and real growth can occur.

All that positive self-talk just polishes my anger into something more palatable, or covers it up long enough that I forget it’s there. Ah, but the truth. The truth changes things.

Now if any of you have a close relationship to a human being who has never once failed to meet your expectations, please let me know and I will adjust my theory…but as far as I can tell, not a single human has ever lived on this planet without royally fucking up at least once, injuring the people close to him or her in the process.

I’ve done it. Sometimes I don’t even know I’ve done it. I let people down without even knowing they expected something of me. I’ve been so lost serving my own interests that I don’t even realize my friend needed me. So I’m an asshole consciously and an asshole unconsciously.

That’s actually kind of impressive.

Anyway I was on a roll, so I kept going. “Ava, this doesn’t mean we just roll over and accept the way people treat us without question. We get to choose who is in our lives and who isn’t, and you can cross those girls out immediately if you want, and with reason, but either way, the sooner you let go of the expectation that friends and acquaintances are going to treat you in thoughtful, considerate ways all the time… the sooner you’ll be a happier person.”

And she thought about this. And thought. And thought. And finally said “Yeah, I see that, because I hurt people all the time and get mad and feel bad about it. But I just want them to see that they were wrong.”

And so I said something to her that changed my life when a good, [very mean, very real] friend said it to me: “Well, would you rather be right or would you rather be free?”

She looked at me like I was insane.

But I think she got it one some level…

I chose not to go on, chose not to explain that it’s freedom from bitterness and resentment and pain – freedom from that aching feeling that comes because the world just won’t do what I want and nobody behaves and no matter how hard I try, you fail me. You hurt me. You let me down.

And I think they won’t. But they will.

And I will.

Because we’re human.  That’s what we do.

Oddly, when I see that, when I see the humanity in the other person, when I see that they are just like me, I am finally able to forgive them, to move on with a clearer head and less pain. Or at least it doesn’t last quite so long.

And maybe I will walk away, ultimately. And that’s cool. But whether I choose to love them despite their flaws or kick ‘em to the curb, I don’t have to carry that sickening feeling of betrayal, of deep-seated hurt – because I wanted you to be something you literally cannot be. (The Person Who Never Lets me Down.)

I don’t know.

It took me 30 years to learn these lessons. Just kinda hoping she gets it a little earlier.

But seriously, what kind of asshat kid reads somebody else’s DIARY? Little bastards.

1. Maybe I should just officially start writing my Sunday posts on Monday.
2. Well, no, maybe not, since yesterday was obviously an exception being the Super Bowl and all, which means of course that I was too busy eating to write. Or do anything, for that matter, except wish I would stop eating.
3. I realize this makes me lame and stereotypically female and a variety of unpleasant adjectives, but I still don’t understand football.
4. No really. What the fuck are they doing out there?
5. At any rate the half-time show was, well, a giant media spectacle as usual. There was some serious genre-mixing there. I particularly appreciated the sudden Vogue magazine advertisement, thrown in for what? 15 million dollars? God American consumerism makes me want to vomit. Though let’s be honest, I engage.
6. I was so sick last week I wanted to pummel myself with a sledgehammer. As if the flu wasn’t enough, it morphed into a sinus AND inner ear infection, which, just in case y’all have never had the pleasure, feels similar to the sensation caused by 8 hours or so on a deep-sea fishing boat in the Pacific. Vertigo. Nausea. Sea sickness. No really. That’s what it feels like.
7. It isn’t the best experience in the world. (Much like deep-sea fishing, I might add.)
8. Speaking of good feelings, sometimes I look at my dog and just say “I’m sorry,” since he sits there all distraught and lost and sad as I race around ignoring him day after day, wishing I could cuddle with him and be a real pet owner.
9. Oh dude. That’s sad. I’m a bad person. (But I called him over and he’s sitting next to me now, so I feel a little better.)
10. Today Rocket said “Mama, sometimes I think some weird thoughts, but that’s okay because I don’t have to do what my brain says. It isn’t the boss of me. I AM THE BOSS OF MY BRAIN.”

I told him some people spend their whole lives never figuring that out.

And I was thinking that things like the SuperBowl advertisements are banking on hundreds of thousands of people not knowing that they are the bosses of their brains, so the day after watching the half-time show, they stand in the grocery store check-out line, and some way somehow, for some reason, hear their brains telling them to “BUY VOGUE MAGAZINE.” And without thought, they obey.

And I might too, were there not so many skinny ass women in it (telling me to buy more crap to make me feel, become, or look more like a skinny ass woman).

Anyway, here’s to a week free from sea-sickness, over-eating, and, with any luck, skinny ass women in Vogue.

Cheers, all!

On a ridiculously more happy note, here’s a picture of Georgia doing something unsafe, saying “Ta-DAH!”

That was hands down the stupidest title I’ve ever come up with.

In.My.Life.

So let’s move on, hopefully to better things…

I would like to clear something up, publicly, on the internet. So there’s no confusion…and maybe, just MAYBE, people will stop asking me the following question, which is of course nobody’s business and shouldn’t be asked anyway, but somehow keeps getting fired in my direction…

“Are you STILL nursing your baby? When ARE you going to WEAN her? “

Let me answer this question with all kinds of clarity: I plan on weaning my baby…NEVER.

Or TOMORROW.

Or, when I freaking feel like it.

Alright. Real answer: I will wean my baby when I no longer feel like nursing her or she no longer feels like nursing.

How is that complicated?

Why don’t I worry about this issue? Because I’m lazy.

Also because I don’t know a single adult who still nurses. Therefore, I’m pretty sure this particular relationship will end AT SOME POINT.

Now don’t start giving me that bullshit 1950s Dr. Spock “your kid will end up too dependent” theory. That’s such a load of crap.

“Okay, Sally, to help you become independent, I’m going to withhold from you that which you need to feel safe and secure and confident, which in turn makes you clingy, needy and more dependent.”

HUH?

Independence is a byproduct of feeling safe. Dependence is a byproduct of feeling fear. Meeting my kids needs as best as I can helps them feel safe.

Now leave me alone.

But don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying that weaning your child is “not meeting their needs” or causing “fear.” Come ON…would I do that? Nah.

What I’m saying is that I don’t buy the theory that not weaning a baby impedes her independence (based on that old-school kids-shall-not-cosleep-or-nurse-past-6-months-because-they’ll-never-grow-up-to-be-good, strong, strapping-Americans theory).

In my opinion.

Does this mean I think a mother should nurse her baby as long as the baby wants even if she’s miserable and “over it” and wants her damn nipples back?

HELL TO THE NO. That is some irrational crazy mama bullshit. If the nursing relationship ceases to work either way, then it should end. Don’t ya think?

I mean why nurse your baby in resentment? That ain’t cool.

And maybe, the reason the mother no longer feels “into it” is because the relationship is ready to evolve – maybe it IS time for the baby/toddler to move on – maybe the mother feels that intuitively and therefore the nursing no longer feels natural and good and right…and SO…she weans the kid. Right?

But for now, for me and for Georgia, we have a pretty nice thing going and she enjoys it and I enjoy it and we reconnect and play and cuddle. So what’s the freaking problem? Why would I end something that is cruising along just fine for both of us? Because I’m making her dependent?

Yes, I can really see her stifling dependency in the way she runs away from me fifty times a day to explore new territory, meet new people, tackle new obstacles…or walks into new places and says “bye!” and forgets my existence entirely unless she falls, gets tired, gets pissed…or wants a drive-by nursing (you know exactly what I mean, right?)…to reconnect, to reassure. To maintain that independence.

I guess I’m just getting pretty sick of hearing that Dr. Spock throw-back crap because I still nurse my baby girl who is 18 months old. Eighteen months!! A baby! Even if I nurse her til she’s four. Even then. WHO CARES?

Oh holy crap there’s no way. I wouldn’t like it that long.

But I nursed until I was four.

And look what a winner I turned out to be.

Damnit. Perhaps not the best example.

Okay but seriously, can we all just agree that nursing a baby past one year doesn’t cause mental and bodily harm? And neither does weaning?

Although… nobody ever sees Georgia with a bottle and says “She still takes a BOTTLE?” They only ask about the nursing…which leads me to believe the issue is still based on that “A CHILD MUST SEPARATE FROM HIS MOTHER AND BE STRONG!!!!” crap.

What’s weird is that it isn’t that I’m NOT weaning, it’s that I don’t have a PLAN for weaning. Maybe I’ll wean. Maybe I won’t. And somehow, in that, I’m guilty of some crime. I guess it’s the crime of trusting my gut. The crime of trusting the radical notion that I know what’s best for my baby and myself,  that I know how to nurture and raise the baby I birthed. And trusting that if the time comes when nursing feels wrong, I will know that too and will act accordingly.

Screw the books.

Screw the theories.

You know what’s real? This:

HEAVEN

1. There should be a universal law that mothers can’t get sick. It should be like gravity – an unbreakable law. I got sick yesterday morning with a fever and aches and sore throat, and yes, though it’s just a little cold, my life doesn’t stop for anything – and it’s freaking miserable. Ya know? I know you feel me on this one.
2. Either mothers shouldn’t get sick or there should be a “Pause” button for life.
3. On Saturday, Ava taught Mac and me how to crochet. She taught Rocket how to finger knit. I thought that was pretty cool. So yesterday, when I wasn’t attempting to sleep, we were all sitting around knitting and crocheting and I felt like a really crunchy family.  Then I remembered she learned that at her hippie school and I felt less crunchy, since I had no idea how to do that until she showed me.
4. Have I mentioned that there is ALWAYS something under my feet? I mean like, IN THE WAY? It’s actually quite spectacular. Between the flailing 6-year-old, the needy-ass dog, the purring cat, and the SUPER CURIOUS TODDLER, I am almost always tripping over some live member of this household. I’ll be honest, I don’t love it.
5. I read a blog post this morning about a mother who was trying to deal with leaving her kids alone with their grandparents for ONE night – for the first time in seven years. When I read things like this I immediately wonder if there is something profoundly wrong with me, since I count down the days until my youngest is big enough to be abandoned and when that day comes, I BOLT FULL SPEED OUT OF THE HOUSE without worry, guilt or remorse. While gone, I enjoy my time thoroughly and may or may not devise plans to stay gone forever. Okay that last part was an exaggeration, but the rest is not.
6. I mean what the hell is gonna happen to them? They’re with their grandparents. Even if they do scream and wail all night or wake up vomiting or whatever…who the hell cares? It’s ONE NIGHT. They’ll survive. And if something really deadly was happening, I WOULD COME HOME.
7. Dude, seriously what’s wrong with me? Does anybody else think it’s not that big of a deal to leave kids with their grandparents every now and then?  Why don’t I worry about this shit? Should I be worrying? I just don’t get this parenting thing.
8. Mac and I went away for one night in December for our 10^th anniversary – Georgia was 16 months old – she stayed with Mac’s parents – we went to dinner and a concert in Santa Cruz…and… IT WAS GLORIOUS. While I hoped it went well for the sake of her grandmother, I was not in the least preoccupied or worried that some catastrophic disaster would befall us or her. Rather, I freaking enjoyed myself. I mean shit, are parents really expected to never leave their kids again? HUH? SEVEN YEARS? Whoa.
9. Okay I’m done with that. I’m learning to let things go, at least a LITTLE faster. Speaking of fast, Georgia has reached mind-blowing ambulatory speeds. She goes as fast as her little legs will move and it’s like she’s just tumbling forward with this crazy momentum. It’s way freaking cute. She falls a lot.
10. I don’t worry about that either.
11. Oh, and more thing. A few weeks ago we were getting out of our car at a friend’s house with the kids and baby when this woman and man walked by with their dogs. The woman stopped and said “Hi! Would you mind if our dogs met your kids – we’d like to see how they do around children.” And I look at her slightly baffled and say “Um, your dogs have never been around kids?” She says “No, and we’d like to see how they do.” And I’m all “You want to TRY YOUR DOGS OUT ON MY KIDS?” When I said it I looked at her and snarled and cocked my head to one side like “HUH?” and “Go away you fucking asshat.” And she did.

People are so weird. This woman asked if I’d use my kids as guinea pigs so she could learn about their socialization level. What did she expect me to say “Oh, yes please! I’d love for your dog to rip my toddler’s face off – since it’s in the name of learning, it’s obviously worth it!”

DUMMMMB.

Anyhoo, have a great week, all.