The Way You Make Me Feel

Apologies if you find this post melancholy or offensive.

On second thought, nah, I don't want to apologize for anything I say on this blog. That's the whole point of it. I say, I spew, I'm not sorry. It pleases me when people enjoy reading this--that's great--but if that ever becomes no longer the case, you are certainly free to click-off! Hah, click-off, it's like the new eff-off. You know what, don't like what you read here? Click. Off.

Er. Dunno where that came from.

Speaking of clicking, I'm typing with these damn Kate Gosselin nails from Halloween and they click like heck all over the place. I can't reach my dang laptop keys, and I keep screwing up words. Worst of all, I type slow. Maybe because I have to delicately type with half nail, half fingertip. I am soooo done with them, but I can't quite bring myself to soak my fingers in nail polish remover or file them down like the package instructs for proper removal. Hello, I go almost ridiculously out of my way to avoid chemicals most of time, but I have to SOAK my fingers in a bunch of horrific paint remover if I ever want to type again?? I dread it. Yet, these 10 metaphors for feminine helplessness currently show zero signs of popping off on their own. Not to mention, I can't tell you how many compliments I've gotten on them! Heck, I even find myself admiring them from time to time. I never have nice nails. Too much sewing and poopy diapers and hand washing in my life for pretty nails. Goodness knows they are going to look crappier than ever once I get these suckers off. In the meantime, I am a blonde with pretty nails who can't type. GAG.

This post was supposed to be about motherhood. One day I will learn to stay on topic. Instead here on my blog I currently meander aboot (<--Canadian typo) as I see fit, subconsciously, pathetically moping about the writing career I never had and most likely never will have, especially if I can never stay on one subject long enough to call it an "essay" or "article" or "feature". Hah! Sometimes I muse over what career I would pick, when my children are a little older. Probably I will just continue to stay home with them and support them long after they need it, but sometimes I daydream. I have considered library science; I mean, I love books and what better career than to be surrounded by them? I would kill as a snooty librarian. On the other hand, it might turn out to be kind of boring, and I've heard that it takes, like, 20 years of working your way up to actually become one. Semi-scratch. Or maybe, just maybe, I could write a book. I dunno about what. (This is a daydream, okay? It doesn't have to be specific!) I just figure that someday down the road a topic will come to me, and I will handily publish it (see! daydream) and then when I tell people I stay at home with my kids I can also say, "oh, and I'm an author." Hopefully this will all happen before the publishing industry completely crashes. One can dream! Oh, and please don't email or comment to me creative career ideas or encouragement. I'm sure you'll mean well in your helpful goodness, but I am the laziest person in the world who can't even bring herself to actually do anything truly productive most of the time, so please don't suggest that I sew or whatever to make cash. I don't currently have to have a job, and I can barely take care of my kids AND house during the day. Not to mention those kids are a pair of needy leeches, God bless them. Lord knows how I would currently fit anything else in. Honestly, if Sam ever leaves me I will just viciously sue him for alimony, find a middling job, and then club it up for a new husband! Piece o' cake. ;)

(This is still a daydream, right? Not that I want that to happen or anything, I'm just thinking though worst case scenarios. Sam, I know you don't read this blog, but don't leave me! Unless you reaaaaaallly want to. But in that case, maybe still don't.)

Weirdest post, evah!

Back to mother-ness. Once upon a clueless adulthood, eons ago, I was one of those judgmental childless people. I saw other people desiring children, struggling with their crying children, and focusing their lives on their children. Seemingly normal, attractive adults would overnight turn into pastel stretch-pant wearing people who carried around diaper bags with bunnies on them instead of purses and seemed boring as hell. I thought, "Why, why would you ever want to do that to yourself?? Why would you even have kids, knowing that they will come out and scream and throw tantrums, and overall be a tremendous nuisance? Oh, and BTW, your kids are total brats--you sucky parents!!" See, being the youngest in my family, I had no personal experience with babies or kids, and when confronted with one, I pretty much had no idea what to do. Nevertheless I assumed I knew all. Ah, the arrogance of youth.

Then, instead of traveling the world as a urban-savvy career woman/fashionista, I fell in love and got married. To a very conventionally minded person who had never traveled, lived in the city, or planned on doing anything but living a completely typical life. A life filled with big-screen TVs instead of exotic trips, daily commutes instead of business travel. I got a job, not in my chosen field as a technical writer, but as a temp stuck doing travel accounting for a government contractor--hello, blech! So of course I hated my job, hated working with people constantly, I mean, oh God, the constant interfacing with people just absolutely drained me. I couldn't sleep at night I was so stressed out constantly from my pathetic, not-worth-my-degree job. Technical writing was zipped up tight in this city, and only a very determined person with considerable charisma could have cracked it, so, definitely not me! My choices were a) get a masters degree in something and do that career b) go down to part-time and be a stay-at-home wife the rest of the time, or c) have kids. For some reason I can't remember, something to do with me not wanting to have kids too late in life, I picked kids.

And then, I had them. And...okay, once again I have no idea where I was going with this because, of course, I have been interrupted about a zillion times. Umm, something about how I feel about motherhood now...

(Can I just say that, actually, right now, I am super pissed, because part of my Tarte di Alsace just freaking broke off in my oven and melted down into the bottom at 475 degrees and smoked like James Franco in an underwear ad. So now it is still verruh, verruh smoky even though I have the vent fan on. AND, it still smells like burnt cheese, AND my tarte is not crispy. Grr!)

Anyway, I find it so easy to judge those who are capricious about parenthood. Who do it because it is expected or whatever, and then--suprise--find out that it is a sh!tload of work. Or those who fall into it so "easily" and claim that it is all rainbows and sunshine. Yet I personally chose it with just as little forethought, fell ass-backwards into it. So really I have no pedestal to stand on.

And now it is, arguably, the most meaningful thing in my life. The most valuable thing I have ever pursued or will pursue. It is a job that I often resent, but my heart is irrevocably glued to. All based on these little mini-intrusions that suck out my very soul with their neediness. But I sacrifice myself...for them. Because from the first second I saw Violet, I was a mom and I was in love. I don't have all the answers on how to be a parent. Oh sure, I've read the books, I've researched, but mostly I just use my instincts, because God put them there, just like he did my mother-love. I eff it up daily, but the drive to succeed in this one endeavor makes me try, try again. It's one of the only things that can really count in life, this building a family and learning to put them first.

In addition to the "why", here's a second item. As a parent, I have no control over my kids. See, I kinda think that if you think you do, you are either deceiving yourself or screwing them up or both. Because the point is to teach them to have self-control. This is really, really hard and what I consider to be one of my biggest responsibilities as a parent. Self-control takes for-ev-er to learn, I mean years. Maybe at least 18 years. So guess what? Yeah, that's my child throwing a tantrum from the ball section in the back of Target all the way to the checkout. Bothering the single/childless people? Eh, screw 'em. If they judge me then they are ignorant. I am just a life-weary woman trying put a couple decent people into the next generation. Don't tell me how to do my job--it is hard enough and emotionally and personally conflicting enough as it is.

And it is a worthy occupation, all on its own.