1. There is so much going on in my life right now I can hardly breathe. I think I may be losing my mind for real, though I’m not sure.
2. Here are the things I’m facing this month. In August. Just this month (yes, I feel a little sorry for myself): Wrapping up an 8-year job/ Beginning grad school/ Ava starting a new school/ Beginning to homeschool Rocket/ First day with a new nanny for the baby (holy fuck that’s a big one)/ Going on a small but big-enough-to-require-planning vacation at the end of the month/Georgia’s 1^st birthday celebration/ Planning Rocket’s 6^th birthday party, which occurs the first part of September…
3. The only of the above-listed items I’ve completed is Georgia’s birthday party, which was a small, family-only affair (of about 12 people)…in which I for some god-forsaken reason decided to cook homemade carnitas, refried beans and tortillas ALL FROM SCRATCH – by myself, for the party. It was lovely but I swear I almost lost it due to the stress. I was flipping, delirious. Still am.
4. Georgia likes white sugar. She tasted it for the first time at her party. We cut her a little piece of cake and held it out in front of her…after she took a bite, she got this surprised look on her face and did a complete face-plant into it. As if her hands were just gonna take Way.Too.Long. It was beyond perfect.
5. It was a great party. It was at my mom’s house, and my brother and sister-in-law and niece & nephew came and my grandparents and my dad and stepmom and my in-laws – all of them came – and we surrounded the little Georgia with big crazy ass family arms.
6. And then we fell silent into a pork-fat coma.
7. Nature and I need to have a little talk. When we do, it’s going to go something like this: “Look, bitch, if you’re gonna give me pimples like when I was 16, you better hook me up with my 16-year-old body, too. You can’t pick and choose like that, yo.”
8. I guess I’m that stressed – I’m returning to having pubescent skin issues.
9. I’m afraid I’m going to lose friends this month since I most likely won’t be returning many phone calls, reading blogs, texting, Skyping, visiting in person (do people still do that?), emailing, Facebook stalking, Twittering, standing in front lawns peeping into windows, or any other variation of enjoyable social activities.
10. Please don’t desert me, people. I’ll resurface one of these days. Well in a month, actually. Seriously, though, months like this one should be illegal.

Cheers, all.

double-fistin' it, wondering "Mama, why the hell did you keep this from me for so long?"

lovely birthday girl, post cake face-plant

Yesterday was Georgia’s first birthday. I can’t believe it. It seems like yesterday I was going through this to bring her into the world. It’s amazing the way the universe gives you what you need. Whether I know it or not at the time, I am learning what I need to learn, gaining what I need to gain, suffering in ways that will help me grow the insight or perspective or balls to face something that’s coming my way…

Georgia’s birth was like nothing I could have ever imagined. (Read about it HERE.) I could spend a whole page or a whole day attempting to explain to you what it felt like, what it was from my perspective, but my words would fall short; they wouldn’t come close to capturing the experience.

I suppose the closest thing I could say is this: I COULD NOT DO WHAT I ABSOLUTELY HAD TO DO. I did not have the power. I simply did not have it in me. I had reached my maximum. My height. The culmination of all my strength – I was giving it everything I had – and my baby was not coming out.

And YET, there was nobody else who could do this work.

Nobody.

So I stood in excruciating pain, facing a weird sort of existential moment: do something beyond my capacity, or die, I guess.

We weren’t on the brink of dying, at least I don’t think we were, although the cord was around her neck twice and she came out blue, so perhaps I “knew” something without knowing it. But it was all very black and white: To be free from this pain, I must do this. But I cannot.

I felt somewhere deep inside me that one of us was going to die if I didn’t make this happen.

My terror was beyond words. I felt I had fallen into an abyss of black but was powerless to crawl out. I wanted out. I just wanted it to end. I wanted some other reality. I wanted to ESCAPE.

But I could NOT escape. The only way to make it end would be to birth this baby…but I could not birth this baby.

But I had to.

But I could not.

But I’m going to die from this pain.

But I can’t make it end.

I have to make it end.

But I can’t.

And on and on like this I went.

For hours.

Until finally I got insane. I simply lost my mind – pulled from the recesses of my soul. Pulled from everything I had ever known and ever lived – everything I ever faced and overcome – everything I had ever feared and conquered – every rage I’d ever felt – every furious moment of passion or disbelief or sorrow or joy – I pulled it all.

And I pushed that baby out. That baby who was “undeliverable”. That baby who was 10 pounds with a head cocked to one side and tilted up – a position that would have required a cesarean had I been in a hospital. She came out in such a weird position I thought her head was a rectangle as she was emerging – I remember thinking to myself as I touched her head “She has a rectangular head. Weird.” (That’s how out of it I was.)

But when was she born I was born.

When her body flooded pink with life, blood surged through my veins.

When she took her first breath in my arms she filled my lungs.

And I was ready.

Ready for that which I cannot do.

Ready for what it means to be the mother of three.

Ready for quitting my job without a safety net.

Ready to go back to school, follow my gut instead of my mind.

Ready to homeschool my son.

Ready for my life, that I didn’t know was my life…until now.

So thank you Georgia. Thank you, precious, sage little one.

You made me what I am. You showed me what I can do. You lifted me up. Made me a mother again.

I can’t believe how long it’s been since we’ve had a wtf? Wednesday, in which we celebrate the cute, slightly alarming things the kids say.  My bad.

Anyhoo, here we go…

+++

Looking at a full moon recently, Rocket says “the dark spots are big holes. I know that because my teachers taught me.” And we all go wild in encouragement, telling him how smart that is, etc., and he responds “Yeah. I don’t just  think about poop all the time.”

+++

So I was doing what I thought was a riveting rendition of “Girls just wanna have fun” while folding a pile of laundry larger than a Prius (appreciating the sweet irony of the moment) and Ava looks at me with disdain, with that “you’re such an idiot” face…and she says, kind of under her breath but clearly audible “I really hope daddy’s genes are stronger than yours.”

+++

Rocket: “Mama, if I counted every day for the rest of my life, how long would it take me to reach infinity?”

Me: “you can’t reach infinity. Infinity never ends. It goes on forever and ever and ever.”

Rocket, walking off: “Oh. Kinda like God.”

[I include the God comments because they trip me out, because they come out of nowhere…as if they know something I don’t.]

+++

At a stoplight, Ava says “Mama, I just gave that lady in the car next to us my ‘dragon face.’ The way I do it is I flare my nostrils and make a chipmunk mouth, and I think I look a little like a rabbid squirrel.”

I respond “That’s nice. I bet she appreciated that.”

And Ava says “Yeah, I know I would.”

++++
 

And here is the granddaddy WTF? moment…

As Rocket, Georgia and I are lying in bed together, I can see that Rocket may be getting  kicked, so I ask “Rocket, is Georgia kicking you?”
And he answers, laughing, “Yes, she’s kicking me right in my bald spot!” And since our heads are all together, I deduce that there’s no way Georgia’s feet are kicking him in the head, so I ask “Oh, where’s your ‘bald spot?’ And he points to his groin.

I don’t even ask.

There’s something I forgot to include in my “shit I don’t understand” post: Facebook/Twitter drama. I just don’t get it. My reactions to people’s posts are pretty much all just slight variations of the following five thoughts:

• That was clever;
• That was not clever;
• Your kid is cute;
• I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole;
• Yawn.

I don’t see what there is to get all worked up about. If somebody irritates me repeatedly, I hide them. If they offend me repeatedly, I delete them. VIOLA. Problem solved. No drama.

Anyway, let’s talk about what’s on my mind…

1. Parents should not expect to have an undisturbed night’s sleep or go to bed in peace for at least 9 years, and that’s if they only have one kid. Because yes, at some point they stop waking up all night for feeding, but they have a whole slew of other tactics up their sleeves to obliterate nighttime tranquility.
2. For example, Rocket has now decided he’s “scared” every night. He weeps. He moans. He cajoles. He already sleeps permanently on our floor, but somehow, now, for reasons yet undisclosed, he needs lights on and people around and if we aren’t physically present in the same room, he weeps in heartbreaking desperation, even though he can hear us bustling about in the rest of the house. It’s so unfair.
3. When I clean my house all weekend, I get in a pretty bad mood by the end.
4. I cleaned my house all weekend. I’m in a pretty bad mood.
5. I’m trying to prepare for this back-to-school nonsense. Clothes, supplies, meetings, logistical arrangements…realizing the nonsense is amplified greatly and vastly more intimidating when I am the school.
6. We went to the state fair. It was a state fair – I don’t know what else to say. The carnies scared me to the point I wouldn’t let my kids walk within 5 feet of them. It stunk. It was hot. They sold fried butter. No really, they sold fried butter.
7. Mac sent me a text yesterday that said “You are the best wife since before they invented wives.” I’m so easy. I’m so simple. If you want a marriage to work with me, send me random unexpected silly sweet texts. I’m putty in your hands.
8. I have thirteen books sitting on my bedside table. THIRTEEN. I start a book, I read some, I stop. I leave it there. I get a new book off the shelf; I read it for awhile. I get bored. I go back to the first one. And on and on and on. Rarely do I pick up a book and read the entire thing uninterrupted. I don’t know why I do that. It’s like literary ADD. Or something.
9. I may write a blog post listing the books that are sitting on my bedside table. But I’ll have to get to know you all better. That’s a real glimpse into somebody’s soul, don’t you think? 🙂 Especially if the book is something like “How to love yourself and nurture your inner child.”

That was a joke. I wouldn’t read a book like that. If I read a book like that, I would vomit on myself almost immediately, because that kinda super touchy-feely stuff makes me gag, and nobody likes vomiting right before bed.

Cheers, everybody, have a good week.

So yesterday I went out with the three kids. Mac was working (shocker), and I was feeling ambitious and altruistic, figuring “I can handle this. I’m a good mom.” Plus, if I’m OUT of my house I don’t have to deal with the mess IN my house.

I know. I’m a thinker.

So we went to breakfast. Then we went to a craft store to pick out fabric for curtains I’ll never actually sew, and we walked around the 2^nd-hand baby store (where I bitched about the prices, realizing I can buy the same shit for cheaper at Old Navy and it’s NEW)…then we went to a couple other stores, then Costco.

And really the little hoodlums were pretty good. I mean they’re kids, so they can’t be THAT good, but for kids, they were alright.

But by the end of our outing I realized something: My kids never stop talking. They never, ever, ever fucking EVER stop talking.

“Mama, do you think it’s weird when girls talk about boys they like?”

“Mama, why are we going this way? Can’t we walk to the next store? Why can’t we walk? I wanna walk. We never walk ANYWHERE. Why do we never walk anywhere?”

“Mama, can we buy this wooden chest of drawers for my doll clothes?”

“Mama, I love it when I fart in my underwear.”

“Mama, Georgia has a booger.”

“Mama, you never buy us anything.”

“Mama, how do the police tell the bad guys from the good guys?”

“Mama, how did the Russian Revolution start?” (Yes, Ava actually asked that.)

“Mama, how come Hitler used gas on the Jews when  all the countries signed that agreement after World War I promising never to use gas again during war?” (and that too.)

“Mama, will I ever grow up as tall as daddy? How tall is daddy? Is he taller than an elephant? I want to be taller than an elephant. A crane is taller than an elephant. But what about a giraffe? Is daddy taller than a giraffe? A crane is taller than a giraffe for sure. Pretty much everything isn’t as tall as a crane. Right, mama? Is a crane taller than everything?”

And ON and ON and ON and ON.

And on.

And on.

And on.

Please give me a break. One break. Two minutes of silence.

Holy fuck do they EVER stop talking?

No. They don’t. They are relentless. I don’t think they breathe. They only talk.

When I’m with all three of them, there is always one of them making noise in my direction, needing me. Always.

Whether it’s whining or crying or wailing or squealing or talking…there’s always noise coming at me from the little people.

My husband can sit there and, by all appearances, not hear a single smidgen of it.

I on the other hand hear every single speck of chatter and feel compelled to answer each and every question they pose. [Unless it has to do with farts or poop or underwear. Most of those questions I let go unanswered, realizing the purpose is usually just to say the word “fart” or “poop” or “underwear” – any response being almost wholly irrelevant.]

I do okay at the beginning. But after a few hours…my Lord I’m tired of people talking at me. I’m an extrovert and all, but shit. Everybody’s got a limit.

And then I start giving one word answers and my daughter starts picking up on my impatience and I start feeling guilty so I try again but my heart’s not in it but they don’t stop because they actually physically cannot (by the way, is that some sort of ailment?)…so we just go on like that…forever….it’s all really quite a lovely little picture.

So I turn on music. Loud.

But they talk anyway. OVER THE MUSIC.

Sometimes I pretend I can’t hear them.

But they only TALK LOUDER.

Deep breaths. Mantras. “I am a rock in a stream.”

Yeah right. That shit never works.

I tried telling them once about the Dalia Lama stating that “senseless chatter” was a bad thing, clouding the mind and separating us from our Buddha nature. While it appeared promising at first, that particular strategy backfired miserably when they started accusing me of “doing senseless chatter” almost every time I brought up a subject they didn’t feel like hearing.

Oh well.

I know I’ll miss this in 20 years.

OR WILL I?

The only time I get any peace from the NOISE. Except wait a minute. Ava is not in this picture, which means she was probably with me. Talking. Talking to me. Talking to me endlessly. Shiiiiit.