So I know we haven’t had a Circle Time Saturday in oh, I don’t know, forever, but I’m inconsistent and unreliable and that’s pretty much all there is to say about that. Anyway, I had to share this song with you all because it is, apparently, a miracle song. And it’s Circle Time, and that’s what we do at Circle Time: share. But don’t forget the rules:

Circle Time Rules

Anyway, many moons ago, when Georgia was just a few months old, she was screaming in the carseat. Not new. What was new, though, was the song that came on my Ipod. It was “Perfect Timing” by the Drive-By Truckers. Almost as soon as it started, the baby stopped crying. She just stopped.

When it was over, she cried again. So obviously we replayed it twenty-seven times and deemed it her “favorite” song. The next time she cried, the kids started wailing to put on her “favorite song,” and I did, and it worked. To this day, I tell you, this song pretty much always soothes her. We hear it a lot. Occasionally she’s pissed enough that no amount of the alt-country-miracle-song can please her, but most of the time, this song works. It’s actually a little weird. Thank God it’s a damn good song.

Okay now you share: do your kids dig any music? Do you dig any music? Come on people, share. SHARE damnit SHARE. It’s Circle Time. Everybody at Circle Time SHARES!!! If you don’t share you’re never getting invited back to the circle and everybody will hate you. (You see. This is why I’m not a kindergarten teacher.)

I am so tired.

Okay so I don’t want to say I made a mistake.

But I think I made a mistake.

I am too tired.

FOR.MY.LIFE.

If I wake up at 5am, clean, make breakfast, get Rocket up, get Ava ready for school, start homeschool by 8am, put baby down at 9 or 10am, continue homeschool, take a shower, leave for grad school at 11, go to classes, study between them, race home, make phone calls on the way home that I’ve been neglecting for too long, get home, see kids, feed kids, bathe kids if they stink, put kids to bed, read, study, work from home (oh yeah, I’m doing that too), write, get to bed by 11pm – and actually SLEEP, I can usually manage to get up the next day and start all over again.

BUT, as you know from this post, most of the time it’s “go to bed at 11pm and realize you can’t freaking sleep because there is too much on your mind and you can’t stop reflecting on how you’re totally not meeting any of your kid’s needs on any level in any way and pretty soon the ball is going to drop and Ava is 9 which is almost 10 which is almost 12 and everybody knows 12 is the beginning of prepubescent insanity (so you’ve lost her) and Rocket and Georgia and AND…it’s pretty much all going to hell in a handbasket. The end.”

Irrational nutjob am I.

Seriously, people. What the hell was I thinking?

I want to go back to the office, where it’s safe.

I want to drop my kids off at school where they become somebody else’s problem (did I just say that out loud?).

I want to sleep at night like I did when I was a kid and my head would hit the pillow and immediately. I’m gone.

I want to not suck fear all the time. Like air. Fear of failing. Of letting kids down. Of missing my life. Of bad grades. Of regretting. Of not getting a job. Of totally and completely blowing it for real.

I want I want I want I want.

I sound like a spoiled kid.

Because the truth is, I’m living the damn dream. I’ve never had it so good. My fears are inventions of an overtired brain. The death-and-doom scenarios concoctions of a hyperactive ego.

Shit, I’ve already totally and completely blown it. And YET, I’m fine.

[Of course I’m using that term loosely.]

Which reminds me, I heard this woman say she has two prayers: one for the morning and one for the night. In the morning it’s “Whatever;” in the night it’s “Oh well.”

Now that’s some spirituality I can get behind. Bring it on, life. Whatever you got. And then, at the end of the day, acceptance that nothing ever goes as anticipated. Oh well. Over it. Movin’ the hell on.

And then, perhaps, rather than my panties getting’ all knotted up and keeping me awake all night, I could let go and my head would hit the pillow and immediately. I’d be gone.

Because seriously people, nobody respects my visions. And they aren’t even big.

Take this evening, for example. I made carnitas. Wow. Real food, at dinner. Mac was coming home from work – I was home – I was not doing something more pressing. Soooo, being the superstar mother that I am, I decided that we would, for a change, eat a real meal at the table together as a family (this used to be something I was adamant had to occur every day – but now, I’m lucky to get it twice a week, which I’m sure will contribute to the early degeneration of my offspring, a theory that torments me, nightly, at approximately 1am) – and, back on track – so I’m making this dinner and puttin’ in the effort and being cheerful and whatnot and the 9-year-old, well, she decided to have one of her 9-year-old episodes.

She was horrendous. Full of drama and self-pity and nobody can say anything right and she’s about to slaughter her brother and me in fury (for some reason) but then it’s tears and I’m trying trying trying to fix it but I cannot.  I attempt jokes, fail. Strong hand, fail. Fail. Fail. So when Mac gets home I’ve quit trying, everybody’s pissed and the baby’s crying and I’m about to chuck carnitas at the cat and Rocket’s putting his Legos in his milk (my attention was on Ava, remember?), so we sit and eat our food in irritated small-talk and all I want is to get it over with so I can read the 75 pages I’ve got looming. For tomorrow.

NOW.

Do you see the beauty of those two simple words?

OH fucking WELL.

(Okay fine, three.)

Actually, I can think of three more: We will survive.

The end.

1. Rocket makes an excellent 6-year-old.
2. Is it wrong that I kinda like it when Rocket gets overtired and irrational and cranky, because he acts all babyish and cuddly and for once sits on my lap without squirming?
3. (Yes, Janelle, that’s probably wrong).
4. We bought Ava a cell phone because we keep forgetting her on early release day. I wish these things weren’t true. I do.
5. We’re having a hard time explaining to her that it’s not a real cell phone, though perhaps it resembles one. Rather, it is a parent/grandparent connection device, and that is all. No internet. No phone numbers of friends. No use whatsoever other than to call the mother or father to let them know you’re waiting for their sorry asses. Again.
6. You know what’s an awkward conversation? Trying to explain to the nanny (in Spanish no less) that unless she’s near death she really just needs to show up and watch the kids and, no, I don’t really care about germs, or whether she’s hopped up on DayQuil, or if the kids are plugged into the television for 4 hours…I just need her here.
7. So we went to the mall yesterday. It was fun because I was with my family (including my brother & his family, who I adore and it’s a dream having them around – seriously, like heaven). It was not fun because I was with everybody else’s families (you know, everyday people at the mall), which is entertaining at best, though more often, just painful. And can we talk for a moment about the music most of those clothing stores play? That pounding wanna-be techno/pop crap – these idiot chicks with high-pitched whiney voices chanting redundant lines about scoring rich men and displaying their large asses? Even if the clothing itself was something other than over-priced, poorly made garments, made in China with synthetic fibers, I wouldn’t enter their doors anyway, on account of that sound. Holy shit I sound like an old person.
8. Okay but don’t get me wrong. I am not some sort of clothing snob. I’m not even a clothing critic. I’m so fashion lame I’m barely allowed to have an opinion on clothing. I just don’t like paying money for crap. I’d rather pay a little more and get half the items. And, I like cotton. And I hate annoying pop music – the commercialization of it all – the shoveling of shit into people’s hands at ridiculous prices because the consumer population is brainwashed into thinking they MUST HAVE THIS ITEM. The end.
9. Speaking of snobs, I read a blog post about this woman who rejected all the women in a local mother’s group (and wrote a whole blog post smashing them ) because they didn’t put on make-up or dress nicely (in her opinion) to an outing at an apple orchard. At an apple orchard (yes, clearly this woman has some misguided notions of appropriate event-attire). And though I see idiot all the time, this was my first real exposure to such overt superficiality and meanness. Most people communicate their sense of superiority in underhanded, subtle ways. She pretty much just announced (and though I’m paraphrasing, the message was clear): “I’m better than them because I’m better looking, wear make-up, and have fashion sense. They have ‘let themselves go’ (direct quote), and therefore, are not worth my time.”  And there were comments in support of this snobbery. Friends, these are the evil popular girls in high school, only grown up and writing blogs. It’s unreal. She was awful. I hate that crap. How stunning that there are actual grown-ups who define people (and dismiss them) due to the way they look, only and completely.
10. You know who I don’t hate? You people. I was straight terrified to publish that letter to Rocket. I bawled writing the whole thing and after I did, I felt this incredible relief, but it felt like a journal entry, not something you publish on the internet. But I try not to make decisions based on fear, so I said “fuck it” and I hit publish, getting ready for comments of disdain, or, worse yet, SILENCE. But what did I get? A whole shitload of awesome. Thank you thank you.

And thanks for voting for me during that contest. I don’t really have a chance in hell of winning (since I’m all small-time and stuff), but whatevs, it means a lot to even be nominated, let alone have a few people vote for me, which I know you did.

Have a great week, people. And check out Rocket on his new bike (right before he crashed into a bush):

Dear Rocket,

You came into this world the way you’ve remained, perfectly.

You came two days before you were due (always the gentleman), in a birth that felt like the sunrise. “Turn around,” she said, “pick up your son” and you swam and I lifted and kissed you and we locked eyes and you took air and took me. Pink ball of perfection. They asked me how I felt. I said “elated.”

You were so beautiful you took my breath away. How could it be?

This boy.

My son?

My son.

Your sister named you “Rocketship” before you were born. Rocketship “Rock on” MacDonald, to be exact.

It stuck.

I dressed you in blue. Your hair was red and blond with ringlets, eventually. You didn’t talk much or cry very often. You smiled and rolled around and climbed and grew. You slept on daddy’s chest.

And grew.

Until you had Chuck Taylor’s and a newsboy cap and words and freckles across the bridge of your nose (which destroy me, by the way).

Once, I walked in from work and you were two and you ran to me in elation, threw your arms around my neck as I knelt to you. You whispered “Mama, home.”

Let me always be home for you.

Let me get on my knees and feel your words across my cheek.

You turn 6 tomorrow.

My awe has not diminished. Your sacredness rests undisturbed. You won’t ever understand, little one. And that’s okay. You shouldn’t. You may get a glimpse when you have a daughter, but you’ll never quite know –what a boy means to his mama.

Tomorrow you turn 6.

The birthdays hurt a little.

Because I remember when you were 18 months old I got sick and was lost and I left you. For two years I left you. For two years I couldn’t see and I ran searching for something, stopping by as mama, holding you in the night sometimes, when the whiskey hadn’t taken me completely, crying softly in the folds of your neck as you slept, begging for a change and dying.

How did I go so long?

How did I not see?

That all I needed and all I sought and all I was dying for rested in the freckles across the bridge of your nose. In the little feet that ran to me. In the blue eyes that forgave me as I walked away again.

Without a word you explained — if I could only see you clearly for one single moment,

I would know freedom.

And finally, I saw.

But that time still sits like a boulder on my chest. Like a thousand pounds of granite grief. Of the time I missed. Of the boy who missed me.

But this isn’t a sad story.

This story ends in joy.

In you and me and a homeschool room (screw reading, let’s make messes) and stories in the “big bed” and breakdancing and Modest Mouse and mohawks, and baking cookies and sand and dirt and Transformer pajamas and stuffed seals and farting noises and you and me.

A boy.

And his mama.

Who’s home.

Happy birthday, little man.

Here’s to the rest of the story.

So that didn’t take long. We already have material for a new volume of Idiot Surfing.

Today we’re featuring a Facebook post that asked people to complete the sentence “I suspected I was a crunchy parent when…” And as you can imagine, there are some real winners.

Please note: I have nothing against crunchy parenting. In fact, on paper, I’m pretty damn granola myself. But doesn’t it seem that the crunchies are by far the most judgmental parents? Maybe I’m wrong, but it appears that there’s an air of pretension surrounding the attachment-parenting thing – which seems weird, doesn’t it? Hypocritical? Since we”re supposed to be the “enlightened,” “accepting” ones? Ah, the complexities.

Whatever. Who gives a shit. Let’s make fun of ‘em. Here we go. I suspected I was a crunchy parent when…

“…my daughter looked in horror when she a woman feeding her child “poison” in a bottle!” – Really, lady? Really? Poison? Effing POISON? Could you just try for one single moment to enter the realm of the reasonable? POISON? Rat killer is poison. Chemicals are poison. Napalm is poison. Formula (you self-important small-minded jackass) is NOT poison. What if that woman can’t breastfeed? What if the baby can’t breastfeed? What if the baby was adopted? ARGH. It’s people like you that make me a closeted crunchy mother.

“…I cried at the mere mention of giving my baby formula.” – Yes. It’s one of the great tragedies of the world. War, child abuse, cancer, and formula feeding.

“…I didn’t want to pass my baby around and let others hold him.” – Hey dumbshit. That makes you paranoid and possessive, not crunchy. The crunchies aren’t afraid of germs. They love germs. Germs are organic. Duh.

“… I decided to breastfeed … co-bathe…child-led parent.” – What the hell is “co-bathing?” Are you telling me that each and every night at 7pm you strip down and get in the bath with your baby? You have too much time on your hands, that’s all. And “child-led parenting”? Holy hell, that’s a good idea. Here’s what “child-led” parenting would look like in my house:

Me, to my 5-year-old son: “Hey Rocket, what are you doing?”

Rocket: “I’m putting my penis in a funnel.”

Me: “But you’re supposed to be eating dinner.”

Rocket: “This is more fun. I’m doing this instead.”

Me, being a “child-led parent:” “Well okay, then. Does it fit?”

[2 hours pass]

Rocket: “Mama, I’m hungry!”

Me: “Okay, go eat the dinner you didn’t eat 2 hours ago. By the way, what are you doing with the cat?”

Rocket: “Oh, I tied her paws together with pipe cleaners and stuck her in this pillow case and now I’m going to tow her around behind my dump truck. She likes it.”

Me, being a “child-led parent”: “Very nice, honey! Excellent creativity. I support you in your ideas and free-play, so have fun and, if possible my sweet bundle of lovely, try not to kill our kitty, mmmmkay?”

(Okay so I have no idea what “child-led” parenting is for real, but it sounds bad. I mean shit, if kids could parent themselves, why would they need parents?)

“… our favorite music is the sound of the wind in the trees.” – Yeah, hate to break it to you, but the sound of wind in the trees is not music. It’s the sound of the wind, in.the.trees. That is all.

“…I can’t travel because I don’t have my refrigerator and pantry with all organic fresh foods.” – Oh sweet Jesus where do I begin? You’re just an idiot. Just an idiot. There is nothing else to say. No way to expand. Except I should mention that your kids are undoubtedly going to hate you, partly for sheltering them from the world because it couldn’t provide “organic fresh foods,” but mainly just because you’re an idiot.

The end.

______

While waiting for the next edition of Idiot Surfing, perhaps you could donate 2 clicks to a super worthy cause. There are only four more days. And then, since I’ll probably never be nominated for anything again, I’ll leave you alone forever. Well, on this particular topic.