Is Crazy an Excuse for Rambling?

I plan to make this the world’s most poorly planned and quickly executed blog post in history.

I drove to New Jersey Friday while listening to Wigfield by Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert, and Paul Dilello, and found myself transported to a land in which, instead of passing big rigs with Jesus slogans plastered on them, I sped by things such as a “World’s Largest Mushroom Producer” truck with tremendous mushroom graphics everywhere.  There is something disturbing about a fungus that dwarfs your minivan.

Next up – “The Sons of Anarchy” rig, decked out in skulls and amazing tattoo art, or something. It was a thing of beauty, not least because I assumed it was a militia that was gathering a large following and obviously interesting many investors in its plan. What militia can afford an eighteen-wheeler like that? They’re normally too busy amassing weaponry and building compounds.

Since I don’t really believe there has yet emerged a group capable or truly willing to overthrow the government, I found myself getting really excited about the possibility that here was just such a group. Organized enough to have a name, to get the fancy truck with the gorgeous art, and to take their show on the road.  Alas, thanks to the wonders of Google, I now know that “Sons of Anarchy” is a fucking television show. And that about sums up my opinion.  I like my imaginary version much better, and have been busy writing up the vision statement for my newly formed militia, “Sons of Bitches and Daughters of Anarchy.”  Leaving a revolution to men is just so eighteenth-century.*

Finally, my favorite vehicle on the road Friday was the tanker truck reading, “Valley Proteins – Not for human consumption. Technical Animal Fat.”  I think it requires no further embellishment. I will just let the full impact of the possiblitites for the existence of such a beast to settle into your mind. And your stomach.

All in all, it was a delightful drive with only moderate screaming in the background, during which I just put both ear buds broadcasting Wigfield into my ears and turned up the volume. A lot.

*I have set up a Paypal account for receiving donations with which to pay for my husband’s defense when he sues the Department of Energy to have his security clearance reinstated. Fortunately, when Big Brother questions me about him, they don’t ask my views on government, so there’s a chance no one will notice my little leanings toward…let’s call it Extreme Libertarianism.  Nonetheless, your donations are appreciated. I will use them to buy a cool truck and get some new ink. Thanks.

Nothing to See Here, Folks

I had planned, for your listening pleasure, to share the delights of “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon, and “Savior” by Rise Against.

But ridiculous band managers who don’t recognize free publicity when they see it have hindered me.

So instead, I will post my friend Will’s weird take on Subterranean Homesick Blues.  He wrote the lyrics, I think, then some guy in Russia put it to music. My friend then made the video. Something like that. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a crack team of lawyers who will sue me for getting it wrong.

And while I’m at it – here’s a shout out to Will and Julie, who were my coworkers before my family decided they needed me more than I needed my four paltry hours out of the house every week.

Too Long For Twitter

It’s hot and my feet are old.  It used to be that I had time to make myself into a girl, but now it’s all I can do to make myself get up.  All I want right now is to put down this laundry and this sad life and put on lip gloss that smells like fruity bubblegum.  I want to walk down the street and get whistled at.  I want to climb trees.  I want to skip school and meet you in the Chinese gardens again.  I want to hop trains like we used to and end up somewhere new.

I want to make sangria and drink it around a bonfire with everyone happy under the trellis that I helped build so many years ago.

I want to swim naked in the creeks again in the moonlight and pretend it will always be like this.  I want to jump off the rock by the waterfall and into the water and go under and this time maybe never emerge from the cool, sweet darkness of being young.

It’s “I Need Therapy” Thursday

I’m busy chopping up pieces of paper and trying to assemble something like a coherent story, or a set of notecards, or at least some coasters from it, and in the mean time, I am SUCKING like a suckling pig sucks on an apple, or maybe more like a sucking chest wound.

Between teaching myself HTML (WTF??) and trying to figure out how to make my boobs look 20 again, I’m too distracted to give you anything good.

So I’m giving y’all a break and losing my audience and probably ditching my fabulous career so I can catch up on everything I’ve been ignoring, like washing my hair and folding laundry and organizing my toothpick holder collection.  My little ones are buried in the clothes and I’d really like to see them again before they turn into surly teenagers (and in case you’re wondering, the “little ones” are not the boobs).

This time I swear I’m really doing it.  I can quit posting junk any time!  I’m not a junkie!  Watch me kick, I can do it.  Oohhh, the spiders! They’re crawling under my skin aaaaaaaarrrrghhhhhhh.

Besides, my self-esteem has packed its bags and moved to Alaska to be with Sarah Palin (whose boobs don’t need my help).  I’m thinking being next to her might make me look like a good mother, and since my body will be elsewhere I won’t have to worry about any physical comparisons.

As for my body, it will be hitting the road, too, but in a different direction, maybe to trade school.

I might be better suited for a life of physical labor.

I’m thinking lumberjack.

Me in my minivan, with the stupid puffy hair the haircutting lady gave me, ready for a Fear and Loathing experience. Without the hallucinogenics. Boo.

So so long, and thanks for all the fish.  And the M&Ms.  And the wampeters, foma and granfalloons.  They were good, too.

I’ll be back next week with my super hero persona back and intact.  If I can find all the necessary pieces.

To My Daughter on Mothers Day (Sappiness ahead, consider yourself warned)

Dear Daughter,

I hope you’ll forgive me for so public a display as this.  Maybe you’ll never even see it.  If it does what I hope it will, you will instead receive a hand-written letter of apology and remorse from me.

See, I’m so used to typing, it’s hard to sit and write.  But maybe this habitual action will help me sort out what I want to say.

Seventeen years ago, I found out I was pregnant.  An accident, but not really.

The truth is, I wanted to be.  I wanted a baby.

I wanted someone to love who would love me right back.  Someone who wouldn’t leave me or hurt me the ways I’d been hurt already.  I wanted you, always.  Even before I knew.

You were born ten weeks early, so fragile and tiny, I thought I would lose you immediately.  I had no way of knowing whether you would survive.  I cried every day until you came home five weeks later.  I railed at the unfairness of never getting to experience a sense of peace about you.  I knew from the minute you were born how tenuous our hold on life is, how you didn’t really belong to me after all.

Because of who I am and what my life had been, I made bad decisions.  A lot of them.  Your father and I are both damaged people, mostly incapable of making reasonable choices for ourselves.  In order to survive, I had to leave him.

I hated the split of our lives.  You were just a baby, but I hated that I’d failed you already.  I made vows to do things better, to be a different kind of parent than mine were.  I swore I would never be the one to say you couldn’t see your dad, as long as you were safe with him.  I wanted you to know him and me for what we were.  I never spoke badly of him in front of you.

But all my hopes of being a good parent were nothing in the face of my mental illness, my irresponsibility, my dysfunction.

And now I see that no matter how much I loved you, it wasn’t enough.  I didn’t do the things that would make you feel secure in yourself.  I wasn’t well enough to model maturity and security for you.

I brought men in and out of our lives, I moved us around incessantly.  I was selfish and impatient and wouldn’t just sit and play games with you, or hang out.  I worked long hours and still didn’t do a good job of building a life or supporting you.  I indulged you out of guilt over giving you me as a mother.

And now, you are lost to me.  Not in a physical way, but I sense the distance and I feel fear about you.  I fear your anger and overwhelming emotion; I’m all too familiar with it because it mirrors my own.  My love for you is so strong it burns a hole in me.  I fear it’s too late to undo the damage I’ve done and the patterns already so ingrained in you.

Being a mother is the most wonderful awful feeling in the world.  Every action takes on vast meaning and sometimes irrevocable consequences.

But if I can start to learn how to loosen myself from this miry muck, then anyone can.

When you need to know the way, I hope you’ll still love me enough to ask.

Flouncing Friday

What?  What’s that you’re saying?

It’s FIBER Friday?

Huh.

Anyhoo, all you moms out there know about multitasking, right?  I mean, we think nothing of brushing our teeth while sitting on the toilet and paying bills,  or breastfeeding and typing (otherwise, the acronym “nak” wouldn’t exist).

We wash dishes and help with homework while we cook supper and listen to NPR’s All Things Considered.  Or Pantera.  Either way.

But how do you factor in exercising with something else?

My coworker Julie has a plan.  She bought this DVD to use as a work out.

It looks like fun.  And if I can look like that again (I can’t believe I ever did), it would totally be worth looking like a whore fool to anyone glancing in my HUGE front window.  Hell, maybe I’ll sell tickets.

As for the multitasking, Julie figures even if she doesn’t lose weight, at least she’ll know how to give a decent lap dance.

Why School Fundraisers Don’t Have to Suck

The other day I read a Facebook comment that said, “I want a school fundraiser that gives me something back, you know?  Something useful, like coupons.”

Normally, what I do with the fundraising sheets that have come home from our local schools is a) misplace them until the day before it’s due b) write a check for a few bucks and toss the whole mess into the recycling bin.  Unless the catalog has cool pictures in it; then I put it in the paper crafting bin and make cards to sell on Etsy.  Hey, do I look like I’m made of money?

Why can’t schools do something like this: send home a note saying, “For $10, we will only send home these things four times a year.  If you donate $20, that’s reduced to two times a year, and we won’t tell your kid that your last check bounced.  Cash only please.  Finally, for $100, not only will you not hear from us again this year, but we promise the big 64 count box of Crayola crayons will go to your daughter’s room only (and that brat who called your kid a dork will get the store brand box of sixteen).

It looks like someone beat me to the punch, however, with devising a way to raise money that might actually “give back” a little to the purchaser.  If you buy your sex toys through this program, a substantial percent of your purchase goes towards educating children in Malipampang (Philippines).  I have enough trouble with the weird search terms that land people on my blog, so I’m just going to refer you to Mominatrix, who wrote about it much more eloquently than I ever could.

So forget about $20 wrapping paper, the $15, artificially scented vanilla soy candles, and the magazine subscriptions at only twice the newsstand price!

After all, a happy giver is a repeat giver, right?

Postpartum Depression: My Story

I finished my story, and posted it over on Blogher.

I’m not thrilled with it, just like everything else I do.  There’s more to tell, more to sort through, more to figure out.  I want to be able to tell you I am all better, but I’m not there yet.

PPD can disguise itself as normal parenting fears, irresponsibility, anger.  It can cause a grown up to behave childishly or irrationally.  And moms, of all people, are most likely to want to hide it, and to be capable of doing so.  We keep going, because really – we have to.

I can only tell you, if you are reading my story because you have one of your own – get help.  Tell someone you are not sure what’s going on, but you might be about to self-destruct.  Force yourself to ask for what you need, or arrange someone else to make sure you are getting it.  Friends won’t mind lending a hand.

They’d much rather wash your dishes than go to your funeral.

Sometimes Words Are Everything

Sometimes, late at night, when it’s dark and quiet and I’m completely alone at last, I think:  maybe I should never have had children.

And my heart clenches and I start to cry and I want to argue with myself that it’s not true, but there is some little, hard, honest place inside of me that knows it.  I am a bundle of psychoses, neuroses, maladaptive coping mechanisms and personality disorders.  I am an addict; a temper tantrum prone, emotionally labile woman with more problems than she has years left to sort through them.

When I look at these children, whom I love more than life, I cannot help but think there might be better out there for them.  If I could somehow remove myself from the equation, they might stand a fighting chance at something like a quiet, happy life.

But I can’t.  In fact, it is only because of them that I am still alive at all.

I am acutely aware of the myriad ways parenting can go wrong.  I might never know if my makeup is the result of years of slights and invalidation or one major event that broke a girl and made her grow into a caricature of a woman.  Or maybe it is a merry mix of biochemistry and environment, a perfect storm of serendipity.  Or it may be that nothing happened at all.  Maybe I was just born broken.

But my children are not broken.

And all too often I find myself saying something that could take just the smallest little chip from their health, their potential.  How many chips does it take to ruin a life?  How much work does it take to put it all back together when it’s already halfway over?

I constantly battle with the voice that tells me I am not good enough.  Not worth anyone’s help or love.  I must be so much better than, just to measure up at all.

I’ve mentioned before my thoughts about God and Jesus, and why that kind of love draws people in.  The love!  Oh.  You should see it.

“I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you, to give you a hope and a future. I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten.  I have loved you with an everlasting love.  I have drawn you with lovingkindness.”

Aren’t these the words we long to hear from our parents?  Maybe not so flowery or poetic, but the idea is there.

“You are good.  You are precious to me.  I love you and nothing you do can ever change that.”

When we don’t receive this from our parents, we might just spend our whole lives searching for it elsewhere.  And those places we look?  Trust me.  They are overwhelmingly not good.

I just discovered that a woman I know writes exceedingly well, and might have some things in common with me.  Some difficult things.  I read a blog entry she recently posted, and I sobbed.  And sobbed.  And every time I have recalled her words since then, I’ve bawled again.

I wanted to be able to tell her why, but I think I’ve just sorted it out.  It’s not the sad things she tells that make me cry.  It’s the very ending, where she shows that somehow, despite everything, she figured out the right words to give to herself, and in the process, to me.

I might not believe them yet, but at least I know which words point towards healing.  Towards belief.

I really want to know how she learned them; how she forgives herself for falling short.  I know we all do.  But some of us mind more than others.  She has found a way to love herself anyway, to believe in her intrinsic worth.

I have yet to learn to handle truth.  I take it and turn it into something dark and skittery; I turn it into a weapon to use upon myself.  I can’t imagine finding that place of strength in me that will allow me to see my weakness and faults as a parent and still believe that I can love my children well and keep them whole.  I do not yet have the courage to see myself clearly.

But when I do, I want to remember these words my friend wrote.  So here they are:

“It’s hard to struggle through your own feelings of inadequacy to muster up the courage to ask someone else, “Am I okay? Am I good enough? Do you think I’m pretty only skin-deep, because I know what’s up inside and I’m pretty good in there? Do you like me? Do I please you? Will you love me? Could you? Just love me?” And I guess that’s what we’re all looking for; an honest answer to that question and also the reason the blanket notion of Jesus’ love is so very appealing. Because, I tell you, it’d take the son of God to love some of those people out there.

But I don’t mean you. Because you are okay. You are so beautiful. I do like you and you are pleasing in every way to me. How couldn’t you be? I love you. I love you. I love you.

And I mean it.

Honest.”

Now excuse me while I go dry off my keyboard.

The Perfect Easter Basket Gift

In case you were wondering what I want for Easter this year, or Mother’s Day, or for my best friend’s birthday which is next week, here it is:  the best Barbie ever.

Alfred Hitchcock anyone?

I mean, birds are a sign of spring, right?