slump

You may have noticed that I've been in a bit of a slump, blogging-wise.

Or maybe you haven't noticed because there's been nothing for you to notice.

There's been nothing at all.

It's not as though I've published a ton of blog posts that were the blogging equivalent of swinging at a golf ball and missing with such vigor that I broke my own back. Which is what it always feels like when I swing and miss a golf ball. Well, first there's the burning shame of recognizing that I suck, and that I suck publicly. Then there's that whole "oh God did I break my own back" thing. Then there's the smug fuckface ball, sitting there, staring up at me with its dimpled white face. I didn't even move, ya jackass. It's not like you swung and missed at a tennis ball, which at least has a direction and velocity to stymie you. The sun wasn't even in your eyes. Nobody coughed. You just suck, like, the most ever.

Whatever "golf," who sucks more, the person who sucks at golf or the person who's AWESOME at golf but who is also missing like 40k because #putters and #drivers and #visors. Visors don't grow on trees y'all.

But anyway it wasn't like that. (Do you even remember what we're talking about right now? I said I was in a slump and it wasn't like swinging and missing a golf ball and then I said "but anyway it wasn't like that," but now IT TOTALLY IS. FUCK.)

Hard to pinpoint the source of the slump.

There was Poopocalypse 2016. Then there was the back spasm, flying with the kids to family vacation, the family vacation to Disneyland complete with Buster's mysterious vomit/hive rash virus, the chemical burn in my right eye that either caused some long-term damage or turned me into an X-man, not sure yet, let you know the next time a wormhole opens.

if i am an x man now i want my power to be laundry that i can do all the laundry without having to touch look at or think about laundry

Or it could have been something less acute. It could have just been life.

My friend moved away and she was a rare friend, the kind of person I never had to pretend with. I miss her a lot. More friends are going back to work. I feel like I'm about to be the last mom left at the zoo on a weekday morning.

The people who became parents by my side are still growing, moving, running toward a city on the horizon.  I'm running just as hard, but I'm on a treadmill. I feel like I'm losing one of the best parts of my job. My community of moms is migrating away.

Also, I'm not at all certain that I'm a good parent, which is almost as bad as "I'm so fat," when it comes to statements that you hope everyone loudly protests. You want jaws to drop. You want people to express concern that you're, like, maybe TOO good a parent, like are you okay?

Except I'm not saying it to invite protestation. I'm saying it because every day the question dogs me and I know I'm not the only one.

I love my boys so desperately, hunger for them to turn their faces my way. I yell at them so much, and pray that their naps last FOREVER. I've heard in hushed tones the legend of the child who went to sleep at 2 pm and slept all the way until 7:30 am. Tell me, Lord, what might I sacrifice in your honor to earn such a glorious stretch of peace? Do you need me to club baby otters? How many?

I'm always trying to wrap myself around them; I'm always trying to shake them off. That is exactly how parenting doesn't make any fucking sense. You are my bread, my breath, my blood. UGH STOP TOUCHING ME FOR SERIOUSLY 5 SECONDS JEEZ.

We get in the car to go to the park and I turn on my audiobook, holding up a mute finger to my lips if Chicken chirps, "Mommy? Mommy? Why does the sign have a circle on it?"

They sit down to breakfast and I hop on my email.
What? 
GAP is doing a storewide 40% off sale? 
TODAY ONLY? 

Coupon Code:

EVERYTHINGIS40%OFFEVERYFUCKINGDAYNORUSHSERIOUSLYYOUCANHAVEBREAKFASTWITHYOURKIDSUNLESSYOUAREAVOIDINGTHEM

Well. 
This must be investigated immediately.

How many times today did Chicken ask me to play with him? "Mommy, will you play with me?" I get so mad when he asks. I have to say "oh baby I would love to play with you but first I have to... (insert thing I'm doing that really could wait but I would rather get it done now so the fruit flies don't come back.)" I get so mad when he asks, because a person I love to insanity has asked me to walk away from meaningless things to do that I do not love. And for some reason, I say no. I say, I have to...

"Change laundry, cook breakfast, load dishes, get dressed, finish this email..."

I always say I want to play with him but he always comes in second. Which makes me feel like I'm lying when he asks if I want to play with him and I say yes. Which makes me wonder if I DO want to play with him.

That's the thing about the treadmill. If you watch the track beneath your feet you notice the seam where the belt was sewn together. You start to count how many steps until you see it again. And again. And again. 

You could run faster and enjoy it more when you see the miles retreat behind you, when you can mark the way that still needs running in trees, crosswalks, unique landmarks, the evidence of progress.

I don't have any idea how to get off the treadmill and back on the road, although I'm pretty sure "going outside" is a key element. Honestly, I've been stumbling through the slump, silent and unsharing with it. Nobody wants to read about my first-world blues. Or rather, nobody wants to read about my first-world blues, explored genuinely but superficially without an insight or punchline in sight.

I'm coming out of it now. Clean living, you know? And by clean living I mean 10,000 steps a day, strawberry shortcake, and scotch. 

Aaaaaanyway I just wanted to say that I'm back, and I'm writing again. And I have a real post for you tomorrow.