Mommy Mojo

Back in the halcyon days of sleeplessness and fretting about milk production

Last night I was supposed to go to the movies but I got too lazy. Plus, there's nothing good playing. So instead I just hid in the office with a glass of red wine and wrote while the Mister took the kids for ice cream and then began the completely boring, monotonous, I-can't-believe-this-is-really-my life bedtime routine.

All was well in the world, or all was tolerable, made rosier by the fact that I was freed for at least 24 hours from having to repeat the words "don't splash water out of the tub" ad infinitum.

Because here's the thing (and I know even writing this makes me the object of scorn or pity in the eyes of some—not that I care what those judgemental a-holes think): I am not really enjoying this parenting thing at the moment.  In fact, it feels like a giant pain in the ass.

My friend Molly hates admissions of parental distress that are preceded by claims of love for one's children because of course we love our children like nothing else in the world, and of course we would throw ourselves in front of a bus to protect them, and of course we want them to be happy and well-adjusted and to feel loved.  So, in honor of Molly, I'm going to spare you that part and just say that if I hear one more sentence that begins with the words, "Mommy, I want..." I am going to scream.  Actually, the screaming started a long time ago.  

Which brings me to the other thing: I'm sort of tapped out.  I need to figure out how to get my happy mommy mojo back.  I need to find the joy in completing the Eric Carle puzzle yet again and stop seeing every single activity as a power struggle just waiting to happen.  Because right now, every trip to the playground is just a fight about going home that hasn't happened yet. 

A thing I like

I worked out with Tina Vindum this morning and let's just say that the next time you see me I will look exactly the same but I will be a better, happier person.  I don't really like personal trainers and I don't really like the word "awesome," but she was awesome.  Seriously.  You can buy her new book (just that picture of her on the cover will inspire you to do a few lunges) if you can't afford her in the (incredibly firm) flesh.

I don’t mean to whine, but IKEA only serves Pepsi

I’ve been kind of down in the dumps lately (I know, just what people want to read about after a long day in the trenches, but bear with me).  It’s hard to explain why, but it has to do with some curdling mix of trying to write a novel, and reading Mountains Beyond Mountains and feeling as though doing anything that is not in the service of others is shallow and meaningless.  There are so many people out there who are fucked unto the Lord, as Anne Lamott would say, and here I am trying to write amusing sentences about a twelve-year-old girl.  And, like, who needs me when the world has Michael Chabon and Lorrie Moore and Richard Yates?  

Mixed in to this existential crisis is the fact that my kids have learned the word “hate,” and the little scraps of patience I was sometimes able to muster have mutinied and fled. Then there’s my inability to be skinny, and my irritation with myself for still believing, after all the evidence to the contrary, that skinniness equals happiness. 

Furthermore, it looks as though my trip to Italy may not materialize. I’ve decided I do not like writing workshops. Our chickens are constantly shitting in their water, considerably adding to my stress levels.  I have disconcerting joint pain.  My house feels small and cluttered and there is juice on the floor that has been there a week. I wore out my expensive shoes and now they look bad.  Oh, and I’m losing my job but I don’t know when.

Guess if eating alone in the IKEA cafeteria this afternoon helped my mood. 

 

A thing I like

First of all, I forgot to update you on the completely successful neighborhood potluck I had in my backyard after the weird run-in with my icky neighbor.  It was great, really.  All these people I didn’t know came and signed up and ate chips and drank beer and, I don’t know, it was a little glimmer of hope in my otherwise shitty week.  So, there’s that—the fact that a lot of people (or at least 10 people) want to make our neighborhood a better place.

Then there’s this, which starts tonight and is a big reason why summer is my favorite season.

See? It’s not all bad. 

Chard-from dirt to table

I am not really into food writing. I like MFK Fisher and all, but really, I'd almost always rather be eating than reading about eating. I feel the same way about reading about music (Nick Hornby is the exception here--this, for example, is brilliant) and visual art. Um, can't I just listen or see for myself and, like, skip all your droning about metallic finishes and discordant chords? Huge exception for my food writing friends, who are brilliant and who supply me with useful and delicious recipes so that I may eat (and here we are, back at my favorite hobby).

So, I'm not going to get too food-porn about our chard but I will say that this evening I harvested our rainbow chard, sauteed it up with some garlic and red pepper flakes and then put it on a pizza with a cornmeal crust. And, it was delish. Like I'm-so-not-going-to-look-good-in-a-bikini-in-Italy good. But that's just the way I roll. I will always choose a little cellulite over a dinner that bores me.