Identity, Hay in Your Bra, and Wrestling, Seriously.

Blogging is weird. To begin, the word itself is either like a sound a swamp creature would make, or maybe something a singer or wrestler would say while rolling their shoulders and flopping their arms around, you know, to warm up. BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG. (Fun fact: the word BLOG is a portmanteau of “web log”. Look it up. And did you know Twitter is considered “microblogging”? I don’t, cuz Twitter is stupid. Cuz I like to judge things I’ve never tried.)

When did blogging get so big, and why do people give a crap about reading other peoples’ crap? Is it escapist? Voyeuristic? Sympathetic? Obviously it depends on the subject of the blog, but why do we all think we are all worthy of “followers”? That’s just creepy. And it’s just public journaling. Why do we want others to read our stuff? Since reality shows took over the world and everyone thinks they can be a celebrity for doing nothing special whatsoever? I think yes. Mystery solved. You’re welcome. Am I famous yet?

Don’t you want to read about how there is nothing worse in this universe than getting hay in your bra? Because THAT’S indubitably the most pressing issue facing the world today. Seriously. No matter how I try or what approach I employ in throwing it over the fence, hay pieces and particulates manage to lodge themselves in the itchiest of places and NEVER leave. Fin.

Whatever. It’s naptime again, and once again it’s that time of day for pondering the difficult and deep questions of life, such as: coffee or beer? Should I take a shower or a nap? Apparently neither, cuz blogging is currently what’s happening. My excuse is that it’s easier to get up from the computer to scold wayward three-year-old boys—who are supposed to be napping but instead are wrestling—than it is to get out of the shower or up from a nap.

I don’t know what I was talking about last time when I said it would take some time to collect material for another lengthy blog. Who am I kidding? Of course I can come up with copious material at every moment. That last post was based on a single day. For reals, yo. And so far this one is about nothing, and is already long. I forgot that I liked to write, and my fingers forgot how to type anything longer than one sentence without cramping up.

But in the interest of expanding on my “INTRO”, which was severely lacking in any actual information due to my being distracted by decorative throw pillows, I am amassing a few of my favorite snippets from my facebook page, now that I am using a format intended for rants longer than one sentence. To begin, one of my favorite episodes of crazy… 

ALL WITHIN TEN MINUTES:
1. Boy poops on potty. There is lots of high-fiving and he gets a cookie.
2. Meanwhile, girl poops in diaper. Gets changed.
3. Boy poops in underpants. Gross. Gets cleaned up but stays naked.
4. Meanwhile, girl dumps bowl of dog water all over kitchen floor.
5. Mom cleans floor. Starts some laundry.
6. Meanwhile, boy poops on carpet on the way to the potty.
7. Dog eats floor poop. Boy screams angrily.
8. Boy poops on potty a little more. Receives half-hearted congratulations.
9. Mom cleans smudge on floor left by dog; yells at dog but not really because she's grateful he helped clean the poo.
10. Mom puts kids down for nap.
11. Mom drinks.

I have to admit I am grateful that my giant doofus mutt, Bruce (a very handsome but very block-headed brindled cross of Bullmastiff and German Shepherd), likes to eat all things vile. It really helps me not to vomit while I am cleaning up huge piles of, well, vomit. Or in this case, poop. At least I am just left with the smudge. Dirt has since abandoned #2 on the potty, and saves it up until he’s asleep to go in his diaper. THAT is a fun midnight pastime, especially since HE is just as unhappy about it as I am. Except right this moment, he and his cousin are side-by-side on the training potty and big potty, allegedly going poop. I think it’s a tactic to avoid the nap that they are obviously never going to take, since the only thing they are producing is noise that is going to wake up my sleeping 2-year-old precious angel daughter Tuesday, who naps like a champ.

Is being a stay-at-home mom making a comeback in society? Like breastfeeding, when women’s libbers once thought boobies were icky and it was demeaning to put them to their intended use, but now all the hippies proudly breastfeed their eight-year-olds? In public? I think working moms and SAHMs are jealous of each other, just like in women’s MMA (or ultimate fighting? I don’t know, I’ve only seen Mixed Martial Arts, once, last night, and one of the matches was a girl fight), when the skanky ring girls who strut around in their undies carrying signs at wrestling matches and the actual female wrestlers must be jealous of each other. Would that make the skanks the SAHMs and the working moms the wrestlers? I don’t know how I feel about that.

Being home with the kids is a constant dichotomy. I am so busy but so bored. I am so grateful but feel trapped. And HOW can such small beings inspire SOOOOOOO much love AND SOOOO much rage?? Cookies and beer? Yes please! That is the salvation of naptime (and baked goods, and alcoholic beverages), which I am too scared to admit might be over for my 3-year-old, who seldom naps anymore. Tragedy. Seriously. But seriously, raising kids is seriously one of the most meaningful jobs, like, seriously. But also the hardest, and the easiest, and the best, and the worst. For serious. I am so proud of my kids but embarrassed of what I “do” (or don’t do). Vanity? Societal pressure?

In any case, I now need to quote my oh-so wise sister-in-law: “Honestly, being a decent parent is an exhausting full time job. Give yourself a break from the guilt. The boredom is a bigger issue to conquer - how to do what you are doing, which is the most important job on the planet, without feeling like your talent and intelligence are draining out your ears in the process. You do need to find a way to not lose yourself in the process.”

ALTHOUGH, I will say, having gone to the grocery store in a kinna uppity area the other day (a weekday), lots of the women presumed to be housewives were icky. Skanky-wearing-heels-and-lipstick-to-the-grocery-store-on-a-Tuesday icky. Or maybe I’m the icky one for wearing my capri cargo pants with a hole in the back of the left leg from climbing a fence and purple oil paint on the front pocket and pizza grease on the front right thigh…in public…with the way-too-worn-out flipflops. Is icky in the eye of the beholder?

Whenever I am driving north on I-25, by myself (which almost NEVER happens—the by myself part), I fantasize about not stopping, and going to Wyoming, and then Montana, and then Canada, and still further North to Alaska (that’s a song, you know…and a movie…which came first?). I used to love the 7-hour drive in college through the vast nothing of Wyoming; I was almost always a little sad when I finally reached my destination. Except that my butt was numb.

Identity is weird for me right now. I used to be good at stuff. I felt like someone. El oh el. The real world—beyond school—especially with the addition of offspring, will do a number on you. Now I drive a minivan, clean up poop and pee from four different species, and say things like “Stop touching your weiner” and “Take a big dinosaur bite” and “Yes, that is a very, very silly tower”. 

Awhile back, when I still had a “real” job (waitressing, er—serving), I was driving to work with the windows down, blasting some classic rock: "Low Rider" and "Cheap Sunglasses"...feeling a little ironic and more than a little badass, having borrowed Dooley's $5 aviators, I then realized I was driving a minivan. Then "Bittersweet Surrender" came on as a sleek red sportscar full of raucous teenagers sped by. (Okay it was a white saturn coupe and an old lady but still.) Reality check. Seriously.

The other night I was driving north at 11pm, alone, listening to a really pretty but melancholy song by Eddie Vedder about the greed and materialism of society. (Maybe it was called “Society”? Titles can be tricky.) I think it was released with the movie “Into the Wild”, which is based on a book, which is based on a sad, and strangely inspiring true story about a guy who disappears in the Alaskan wilderness. I’m sure you’re familiar. It made me wistful for a sort of Buddhist non-attachment and simplicity and solitude, but then I remembered how I rather enjoy electricity, and although my family drives me crazy, I could never be non-attached to them. I would get to Canada, or Alaska, and have to turn right around cuz I’d be missing everyone so bad.

At the grocery store (yes, we’re back to that), if I’m there with my lovable hooligans, I am soooo envious of the childless people shopping with ease, unencumbered by the big-ass car-cart that doesn’t steer worth a crap and little screamers who think the grocery store is a free-for-all. But if I’m there as alone, I am jealous of the people who have their adorable little minions with them. You just can’t win. As soon as you’re free of them, you miss them.

But apparently I don’t get to be free of them at all today, so I do not miss them. At. All. S-e-r-i-o-u-s-l-y. In conclusion, I was wondering, would you rather be a ring girl or a lady wrestler? Why?