I have to...

Again with the Facebook status updates. This time in reference to motherhood. I have seen several over the last few weeks that come just shy of gushing over being a parent. Gushing and oozing the kind of bullsh*t that not even a dumb puppy would fall for. Or a middle school blonde for that matter.

To be clear, I can understand the moments of pure insane love that come over a mother, even when her children are grown. I've seen it in my own mother who once said, "You know, whenever you guys come to visit it's like a movie star is here." At the time, I thought she was insane, but I know the feeling now. When Anna gets off the bus with her white fedora tipped rakishly on her head, her backpack slung carelessly on one shoulder, yeah, it feels like I'm watching a movie and loving every minute of it because the star is mine and mine alone. The same can be said for Lucian, when I hear him in the EARLY hours of the morning talking to himself and quietly setting up elaborate war games with Matchboxes, I can almost see the evil genius he will be.

But back to the gushing. When I read things like, "I love my little man," or "Haven't slept in weeks but my baby is my world" or "At home with a sick kiddo" my stomach ties up in an uncomfortable knot. I know what's behind those updates because I read the previous five from the days before. "Need a night on the town," or "I don't think I can do this much longer" or "is exhausted and blah today."

I can put two and two together. So that by the time the "happy mommy" update hits, it's already out there. You're trying to convince yourself that you've got the best job in the world, but we all know it's a sh*tfest, so there's no need to put on a show. Yes, we know you love your little man, but we also know that you posted that because you think you might sell him to itinerant workers by the end of the week.

And yes, it's ok to be totally f*cking enraged that you haven't gotten any sleep for the last three months because a being the size of a bag of sugar eats, sh*ts and cries his way through your life and there's nothing you can do to stop it. It's cool, ladies, we get it. You don't gotta tell us you love your kids, but who do you think you're kidding with the 1950's Good Mother updates. They're downright scary. Just tell it like it is, you'll feel better: "If this kid doesn't f*cking sleep tonite I'm feeding him to the coyotes" or "My 9-year-old is being a royal biatch today" or "Praise god, I just found the holiday clonapin."

Do it.

Just to solidify this point, I saw a woman in a cafe yesterday with her two young kids, maybe 6 and 3. It was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon and she was there alone at first and then a friend showed up with another kid. I thought how chill the kids were, keeping themselves amused and chatting as their mother pounded back a few beers (it was a cafe, btw, where coffee is the main beverage) and gossiped with the friend. The kids got antsy (hell, I get antsy after 35 minutes) and as she was taking a huge gulp from her beer, the cross-eyed angry look she gave them gave me chills. Like she might've killed them, and there she was and there they were in their perfect clothes, with their designer rain boots, and their organic snacks and she hated them to the core.

Update your status, moms.

Tangled up in blue and pink

I'm not sure if it's because of the bipolar weather we've been having, or the blob/tumor enacting its dark magic on my hormones, or the imminent arrival of the full moon this week, but I am almost getting the impression that I'm acting like...a girl.

Dun-duh

Or someone who is so fearful of winter and its environs that she now feels even more like a rabid squirrel in a garbage can.

This morning, early, as the sun warmed my groggy face, the Sisco kid and I sat on the back steps and enjoyed our last moments as humans before the anvil of Monday came down on us. He sipped at the coffee we were sharing and looked down at my bare feet.

"Um, you know, that ankle bracelet is starting to make me think you're turning into a girl or something." He smiled over the rim of the cup. "Ya know, when we first met you carried an axe and wore wife beaters." Still smiling, he looked triumphant, like he might be responsible for my femininity or something.

I glanced down at the silver anklet adorned with pink shells remembering that after I put the thing on (sometime on Friday) I actually contemplated painting my toenails as well. I resisted the urge in favor of some mascara and lip gloss.

"Don't worry," I said, trying to sound cool; I think I might have even spit off the steps, "It's still there, tied to my knee."

He shook his head and smiled.

But, my god, what if he's right? What if I am losing my edge? The other night I started babbling about how we could get a tiny apartment in Rome and live out the rest of our days there after the kids were grown. I could blame the pain meds, but I hadn't taken any. What's next? Joint grocery trips, I'll-wash-you-dry dishes, decorating each other's rooms, imaginary house hunting?!

Apparently I need a little ride back into reality, and thank you to Lucian and Anna for providing just such a ride. Lucian wasn't off the bus more than 5 minutes before I had to threaten his mortal existence if he didn't leave his sister alone. And Anna wasn't off the bus more than 5 hours before she came clean about why she had to stay in for recess (I'm still working out the details of that punishment).

And, of course, she arrived with a booger clogged nose and the announcement that her dad might let her ride her bike BY HERSELF to a friend's house next week.

Over my dead f*cking body, man.

Did I mention that Lucian's nosebleeds are back in season. Fortunately, though, I've wised up to their patterns so that there won't be any more hysterical CAT scans and Google MD research. Now it's just an ice pack and me pinching the top of his nose until the thing clots up.

"Wow, mom, you pinch harder than Dad, and you can even hold the ice pack on my neck at the same time."

Amazing, isn't it? I think I'll clean my Leatherman and read some John Irving tonight to get my mind right.

Thick blooded

I nearly went off the road last night listening to an NPR interview with the author of "Achoo." Yes, it is a book about the common cold and myths and solutions surrounding the common cold.
Guess what, Airborne is horsesh*t, but you already knew that. Did you really think an Alka-Seltzer tab with a brilliant marketing machine behind it would save you from this misery?

I hope not.

Chicken soup, also a load of crap. Although, she did say that the soup may speed up the healing process, not because it's chicken soup but because someone made it for you and knowing that others have empathy for you makes you feel better faster.

Imagine that. Empathy...could be the name of a lesser Norse god, probably one that tried to save a drowning puppy and got his hand bit off by it's rabid bitch mother. 'Cause that's how rare empathy feels. Poor empathy.

So, empathy is the cure. But here's what made me laugh...hard. She said in the interview that sleep deprivation and chronic stress are the two key components to contracting a cold.
"Normally people who sleep less than 7 hours are more susceptible. As well as people who are under a lot of stress."

Of course, I went over in my mind how many hours of sleep I've gotten in the past, oh, let's say 5 days. It might add up to 7 if I round up. And stress, well, stress is like beef jerky for me. I gnaw on it, its salty juices release in my mouth, but yet, it provides no sustenance whatsoever.

I coughed a little after the interview was over. When I got home I was sure I had swine flu, and by the time I got to bed, loaded up with Zyrtec and contemplating mixing Thera-Flu with rum (my famous 'hot toddy') I was sure that by morning the snot army would come and take my dignity.

Nope. Still here, nasal passages are dry as the Gobi. But I'm still contemplating the Thera-Flu for sh*ts and giggles. It may help with the whole sleep-deprivation thing. Or the whole having thoughts after 10 p.m. thing...

A New Focus?

Why is it that when a celebrity has a baby suddenly the world remembers motherhood? I saw the cover of Vogue, graced, of course, by Halle's beautiful, ageless face. She says she has a new purpose or focus; motherhood.

News flash for ya; motherhood was not invented when Angelina decided to adopt fifteen times and squeeze a few kids out in between. Cleaning up puke and tears and blood is not a new concept. It wasn't even new when, nearly ten years ago, I was sitting in the ICU with a baby the size of a first grader cradled in the crook of my exhausted arm.

Get over it, Halle. You're cute, sure, but you're just a milk machine like the rest of us. Except that the rest of us don't have a personal trainer to bring our bodies back from the wreckage of pregnancy. And the rest of us don't have a dishwasher, personal chef, or a nanny to coax us away from the edge of insanity when all we can think is "What have I done? What have I f*cking done?!"

There's no turning back. There's no handing over when you're exhausted and you have to peel yourself out of bed to make some semblance of a healthy lunch while chugging your 47th cup of black coffee knowing that the second the bus rolls up is the second you need to be out the door to work.

I have a new focus, too, Halle. It's called keeping it real. While you're basking in the light of your $100k window treatments hoping you're in the running for the Mother of the Year award, I'll be sitting at my 900 year old farm table fighting the urge to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes while chowing down on a store-bought Whoopie Pie for breakfast. What award? Most of us gave up trying years ago when we know that it was either us or them.

I was sitting on my friend's porch yesterday and we were reminiscing about when our babies were little, when we gave a sh*t about how the house looked and how the food looked and how clean the kids were.

"Remember when we tried to have a starch, a meat and a veggie at every meal," she asked, flipping a pre-made turkey burger on the grill.
"Oh yeah," I said, taking a long blessed swig on my Corona. "You mean when we bathed them every night and hated every minute of it."
"Yup."
"Glad those days are over," I said, breaking mangled pieces of bread in half to substitute them for hamburger buns. "I don't need a f*cking medal anymore. I know what I've got to do."

And we do it every single goddamn day. We do it when we are delirious with fever, when our relationships are sinking into misery, when we have no money, when we are released from the hospital with strict orders to rest. We do it. There's no refocusing or sudden realization that, "Oh my god, my kid comes first."

It must be nice to pretend that an option actually exists. "Gee, I wonder who's going to sponge down the kid when he's burning up with swine flu?" or "You know what, nanny, I think I'll change the baby's diaper this time" or "You take a break, Jeeves, I'm going to teach Johnny how to drive."

The prize, the real prize, is going to bed at night knowing that you made it another day, and no one was harmed beyond recognition and no one went hungry and you get to do it again tomorrow. There's your medal, wear it with pride even though it's covered with chocolate and riddled with dents.