We have to move in the next month or so. It's a real bummer because (if I have to explain why moving my 2 small children out of a house that is 2 blocks from both their best friends and a lake is a bummer then you need to phone home, ET, and gtf outta here.)

I will say that it's kind of interesting to imagine the different families we could become in all of these new places...

Spacious 3-bedroom farmhouse, 
built-ins in living room, 
wood-burning stove, 
cottage in backyard, 
perfect for a playhouse or convert to a chicken coop...

Oh my God we would be so freckled and hardy.

We could grow our own organic vegetable garden in the raised beds. The children would learn how to touch young vegetables without clawing them to pieces or squeezing them until they explode. They'd tend to the chickens and maybe we'd get a goat, too, for the milk and to both fertilize and trim the grass.

Suddenly I would know all the names of trees and be able to recognize stinging nettles before I sat on them. At night I would put on my reading glasses and pull out my knitting while listening to bluegrass and sipping an earthenware mug of hot tea with whiskey and lemon. I would stop going to the movies, watching Netflix. The world, such as it is, would fall away. I would settle into the quiet peace of our little acre of life.

Sometimes I would look up into the clear blue sky, shade my eyes, and say, "Hmm... looks like the red-breasted mergansers are nesting again. You know what that means... going to be an early spring." The boys would practice their letters on a chalk slate, and come running when I hollered, "Chicken! Buster! Time to mill the wheat!" They'd start to call us Ma and Pa. In the summers they'd catch lightnin bugs in jars and we'd tell tall tales under the stars.

Ryan could grow a beard and open a carpentry shop in the cottage. His hands would grow calloused and his collection of flannel shirts would grow to... more than zero, which is what it is now. At dinnertime we would gather round the farmhouse table, look over the platters of picked-that-day roasted potatoes, corn on the cob, snap beans, warm pillowy rolls wrapped in soft cloth, and a roasted chicken, and we would--

Oh who the fuck am I kidding, Ryan hates flannel shirts and I don't need tea or lemon fucking up my whiskey, thank you very much.

This life sounds so beautiful. I just wish it was the one I wanted for myself. I like walking to the coffee shop and 4 different grocery stores and the gym.

I like being humbled by the diversity of human life, not the diversity of bird life. If I'm being totally honest I fucking hate birds. Not with the fire of a thousand suns or anything, just casually, the way I hate mayo. I see it and I'm like... blech why? Also I've been shit on no fewer than 7 times in my life.


Sleek 2-bedroom condo 10-minute walk to heart of downtown. 
Modern touches, stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, 
bamboo flooring, high-end fixtures throughout...

Oh my God we would be so sleek and city chic.

First things first, new asymmetrical haircuts for EVERYBODY. My new uniform would be ponte pants and ponchos with $400 ballet flats and a latte. Chicken and Buster would be in harem pants and rock star shirts and kiddy Vans and when we left stores instead of saying "bye bye" they'd either say "cheers," or "la'ers" with that super-cool like half wave that turns into your hand slipping your Ray Bans back on.

Ryan would sell our cars and buy a Fiat hybrid.

I'd buy an oversized camel-colored cashmere cardigan to wear around the flat. Oh yeah, we'd definitely call it "the flat."

I would write seven books in the flat. They would be really mean and funny but also... a little sad?

There would always be a bottle of red breathing on the counter.

Chicken and Buster would start requesting pickled beet and goat cheese salad for dinner and guess what motherfuckers I could totally just text my guy and have a fucking quart of that shit in my flat in 10 minutes flat.

At bedtime the children would bathe contemplatively, step out of the tub onto the steel-gray Restoration Hardware bath mat without dripping on the heated tile floor, and proceed to floss, unbidden.

The art student next door would come over after the children went to bed and Ryan and I would walk to an art opening, declare the work to be phantasmagorical yet mundane, and then catch a set at the jazz club before walking 10 minutes home again where I would change into my cashmere house sweater and Ryan would put on an LP and we would sit on the balcony of the flat, sipping Fernet-Branca and discussing eternity and our new linen sheets (they really do breathe.)

Hahahahahahahaha jk jk jk jk jk sweet lord we are way too loud and messy and sticky for that business. Not to mention anyone who calls their apartment a flat in SEATTLE had better be fresh off a transatlantic journey and/or fucking kidding.

NOT TO MENTION there is no fucking way I would trust my children with a balcony. I've heard Tears in Heaven and I've got no qualms about going overboard too if my whole reason for living quite literally went down. Let's avoid a tragedy, people. No condos.

Cozy cottage in up-and-coming neighborhood. 
Perfect for a family. 
House has character, original doorways, 
newer appliances, 
big-for-the-city fenced-in yard, 
good school district...

I think this is it. I think this is the place that is my family - cozy, a little messy, not quite square, but comfortable, full of love, and-- wait I'm sorry... there's not a dishwasher?

(Deep breath.)

I swore when I left Brooklyn that I would never go back.

I threw away my rubber gloves and my fucking DISGUSTING sponges and I said NEVER AGAIN. Go ahead - call me a gold-digging materialistic bratty princess whiner millenial Kardashian Becky. Call me anything you want. I won't be able to hear you over the sound of this machine that I just turned on that is fucking washing my dishes.

Oh oh oh oh I see what happened, I guess when you said "newer appliances" you meant "newer appliances in fucking 1847 or whenever it was RIGHT BEFORE the dishwasher was invented."

You know what's perfect for a family? If you guessed "original doorways," EEEEENNNNNNGGGGGGGGH (that was a buzzer sound) (buzzer sounds are hard, phonetically) (I went back and forth between "iiiiih" and "eeengh." Not sure either one was correct. But at least I was able to explain my joke with like 40 more words. Which is how you know it's a good joke.)

No, original doorways do not a happy family make. You know what's perfect for families? Moms that don't have to drink to forget the sensation of touching repulsive still-damp sponges with little bits of unidentifiable white matter caught in the green webbing of the scrub side.

Dishwashers, asshole. Dishwashers are fucking PERFECT for families.

mic drop

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Do you feel like you never really struggled with anger until you became a parent?

Do you feel like you struggle DAILY with anger now that you are a parent?

Are you a mama?*

This one's for you.

*Not that papas don't struggle with anger - it's just this one is focused on mothers specifically, you'll see why if you read the fucking post already.

Mad Moms:
An Origin Story Hypothesis
in 5 Parts

Part I: The Workbook

that font is

I bought an anger management workbook.

Honestly, I'm a little embarrassed it took me so long to put it together... I was like AAAAAH WHY AM I SO ANGRY and also AAAAAAH I LOVE WORKBOOKS SO MUCH, and then one day it was like God/Bezos himself touched my shoulder and/or smacked the back of my head open-handed and said "Girl you know there are workbooks about managing anger, right? That's why I made Amazon.com for you, my child.  #FreeSameDayShipping #MyMiracle #YoureWelcome."

The first paragraph in that book pulls no punches:

People who struggle with chronic anger are in unbearable pain.
The way you know their pain is unbearable is because they do not bear that pain.
They get angry instead.

In the next chapter I learned that an anger response is made up of two parts:
First, pain.
Second, a trigger.

This makes sense. A person can be in pain for a really fucking long time and just stew in it until somebody cracks the lid on that stew pot and shit goes down.

Think about the last time you really really really had to pee, and you were like I can do it we're almost home... now we're home... almost there... almost gonna pee... just peed a little but these pants are black so I'm good.. still okay... then your kid slapped you in the face/said "Mommy" real loud/walked slowly to the house/paused to pick a flower for you and you FREAKED OUT. And then afterward you were like "Wow, I really overreacted, that was weird."

Or think about the last time you were putting your kids in the car and they were acting like a pair of damn fools and you were like I can do this... I love my children... I love their spirits... This is a phase... I am not a terrible mother... until you heard someone mutter, "Control your kids, lady," and then your kid slapped you in the face/said "Mommy" real loud/flung his shoe across the parking lot/asked you for a kiss and you FREAKED OUT. And then afterward you were like "Wow, I really overreacted, that was weird... although that lady was a bitch," and your kids were like, "that lady was a bitch!" And then you cracked the windows and got out of the car to retrace your life choices.

People who struggle with anger are in pain.
The trigger gives you permission to express that pain as anger.
Anger = Pain + Trigger.

Part II: The Mothers

Many women I know never struggled with anger until they had kids. But once they had kids they struggle daily with anger - unprecedented crashing waves of anger. (This is purely anecdotal, maybe I just know a lot of high-tide types.)

We're tempted to blame the kids for the anger. The timeline matches up. And, yes, kids are a lifetime of aggravation.

For example! Think about kids who have FOR YEARS wanted their Sunday pancakes cut into bite-sized pieces and smothered generously in syrup. But today without warning changed their minds and suddenly wanted their pancakes cut into dipping strips with a bowl of syrup on the side so when you serve them what you think is going to be a slam-dunk no-conflict breakfast, you discover in the amount of time it takes for your kids to inhale and start wailing that you have just literally murdered their dreams. And you have to make the choice between exerting the physical labor to whip up a second batch of pancakes, or exerting the emotional labor to either try to convince your child to eat the fucking pancakes OR to sit stone-faced at the table and try to ignore the screaming meltdown over the now-cold and soggy bite-sized pancake breakfast that you thought "sounded nice" only an hour earlier...

When mothers wake up in the morning, they know that they have better-than-even odds of breakfast being stressful enough to crack the Dalai Lama.

But I don't think it's just the kids - some family members are a lifetime of aggravation, too. So are house cats, small dogs, hemorrhoids, close-talkers, bus pervs, sunny days when you forget your sunglasses, and birds that fall under the "rats with wings" genus.

There's more to it than just "I have kids now."

These women feel afraid of their anger - it's powerful, uncontrollable, shameful, and happens all the time, or at least a lot more than it ever used to. (Wait, am I describing anger or adult-onset lactose intolerance?)

No, but seriously, for so many of us our anger swims up to the surface, this muscular, toothy, invisible threat, and it just lives there. It happens as we become parents. But it's not just the kids.

Part III. The Pain

The experience of becoming a mother is transformative - at first I typed the word "traumatic," but then I remembered that some people don't consider becoming a parent "traumatic." But most of us can agree that becoming a parent is transformative.

Transformation is a two-part process:
First, destruction.
Second, creation.

Transformative experiences necessarily require either partial or complete death of your previous self.
The caterpillar gets got in order to grow wings, and you know growing wings has got to hurt.

Grief is a factor.  Fear is a factor. Uncertainty is a factor. You've never been this thing before.

There is pain in transformation and I'm not just talking about the stitches in your lady grundle.
There is pain in becoming a parent and I'm not just talking about physical pain (although you haven't lived/barfed until someone takes a running leap and lands knees-first in your crotch.)

There is cataclysmic emotional pain in becoming a parent.

If you're already a parent, I'm guessing you can relate to many if not most of these experiences:

- seeing people leave the house with only a wallet in their hands and feeling crushed by the logistical and material burden of your baby

- "liking" pictures of your college friends on a bike trip through France at 2:00 am while the baby nurses and you smell like milk and B.O.

- performing the Heimlich maneuver on your silent, open-mouthed child

- watching your child approach another child on the playground, ask "Can I play?" and get rejected

- trying to answer the question, "Will you ever die, Mommy?"

- looking across the table at your partner and realizing you have no idea what he does at work all day

- looking in the mirror at yourself and thinking, "damn, I've gotta get a membership to... something. A smoothie service. Or Barre. Or... church..."

- catching a look that passed between two other parents, about your kid

- making small talk at a social function and answering the question, "So what do you do?" and seeing the other person's face glaze over as he/she looks for a more interesting person to talk to

If you're not yet a parent consider this your warning: you WILL have an existential crisis at some point during the child's first year.  You WILL be devastated by the irreversible passage of time. You WILL grieve the life you used to have, and you will come to accept that it will never be resurrected.

You WILL be wounded when the love that you have for your baby cracks open and blooms into the love you have for your toddler which is gorgeous but grown from the wound where you cracked, nevertheless.

Sometimes you'll look at your child and want to cry because you love him so fucking much and know the person he was is gone, and you know this person will be gone soon too, and before you know it he'll be jerking off in the good towels and hiding his bong in a hollow hardback Wizard of Oz, and you'll look at him that day and want to cry because you love him so fucking much and you know the person he was is gone, and you know this person will be gone soon too and sometimes you'll go into his empty room and smell his pillow because your heart is just fucking broken open with so much fucking love... it's painful, okay?

It hurts to love them so much.

That pain is new to parents. Maybe that pain, and the new triggers of whining sounds and shit smells and someone always touching you and soaring to new heights of exposure to other people's bodily fluids, maybe that's enough to jack us up into unprecedented rage.

But I think there might be even more. See, the anger doesn't feel new. Not to me.

It feels as old as I am. It feels like it's always been there.

PART IV: The Other Pain
these are actually not that bad
you know
for a shoe that completely distorts
both the shape of a human foot
and the way a body was meant to move through space
they're super cute

There is pain in the daily experience of being female.

Keep reading, gents. This one is going feminist and you have to get on board the train or...  nope, actually, there is no "or. " You have to get on board the train.

There is pain in being a sexual object before you are sexually empowered. Think of baby turtles in the vast ocean - soft, tasty morsels without the hard shells they'll need to survive. There's pain in being catcalled as a child, in being shunned by other girls for growing breasts before they do, in smiling at disgusting jokes because the other option is to start a fight with someone bigger and louder than you are. There is pain in knowing your relative size, and weakness.

You know the conventional wisdom that tells you, knowingly, that "the first time hurts a little"? Translation: there is pain in sex. There is pain in being the one who MUST go to Planned Parenthood for birth control or the morning-after pill (whereas your partner can go to Planned Parenthood or Taco Bell, either's good, because whether he puts a penis, Plan B, or a Gordita Baja in his body, Josh is not going to find himself ticking off days in his calendar in 3 weeks, wondering if he will still be able to graduate college.)

There is pain in trying to be seen as an equal. There is pain in not being called on in class. There is pain in knowing that you have to try. There's pain in going to a church where only men stand as elders, in looking around at all the women in the pews. There's pain in speaking to men and seeing yourself ignored. There is pain when someone meets my husband and me and shakes his hand but not mine.

I can only speak to my experience of being a girl and a woman, but I can tell you that I was made to feel most valuable when I was pleasing, easy, sparkling and inconsequential.

What the world most values about me is at odds with what I most value about myself, and there is deep pain in that. Because it means that either the world and the people I love in the world are wrong (which is scary and lonely) or I am wrong (which is the definition of shame.)

Consider how much pain there is, even in this woman's first-world life - honestly, a few sketchy hookups and shitty microaggressions here and there do not make me Malala.

And then consider the woman you are, the women you love, the woman you're raising. She hurts too. These things and others like them hurt her. We are in pain. Even if we brush it off or minimize it because we're not "whiners" or into "playing the victim," we are in pain.

Part V: The Trigger

Remember the formula for anger - pain, trigger. It's easy to recognize that formula in the demands of a regular day - everyday pain, everyday triggers:

I have to pee, then he whines for milk.
My back hurts, then the pot boils over.
I look at myself in the mirror and I look like shit, then a full bowl of cereal drops off the edge of the table.

But what about the bigger pain - the chronic pain of love, the deep pain of mismatching your world?

Are there bigger triggers to match this bigger, deeper pain? Is that what causes the flood?

A trigger works by giving you permission to express - literally, to push out - the feelings that have been churning inside. What if simply becoming a parent - the experience of cracking open both literally and figuratively - was the trigger that cracked open your own lifetime of pain, and the lifetime of pain you know is coming, as you watch your child grow up and transform - destruction, creation, destruction, creation... until the end.

I TOLD you that you'd have an existential crisis.

So that's my hypothesis and I'm going to rewrite it without the question marks:

We struggle with anger (which consists of both pain and a trigger) when we become parents for two primary reasons: first, because parenthood is intrinsically painful and exhausting in everyday ways, and it depletes our ability to control our emotional responses; and more broadly, because parents are complete human beings who bring a lifetime of pain into the experience of parenting, and because becoming a parent is uniquely transformative, painful, and is in itself a profoundly powerful trigger for the full expression of emotions, both joyful and terrible, which makes it really fucking hard to smile at bullshit anymore.


This is one backseat blogger's opinion, based on one pretty sweet workbook and the self-awareness that can only be achieved with the combination of a lifetime of therapy and a theatre degree.

This made sense to me.

I just had the strangest instinct to end this post with the words "I love you."
I guess, if you read this far, I do.

(ugh sorry hippie alert)

I'm really torn.

I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads.

The stakes have never been higher.

My son's futures - and maybe even the future of society - are at stake.

Consent is nonnegotiable - My top priority as a parent is to raise sons who respect themselves and ALL others. In our home, when someone says "STOP," I want the response to be instinctive, drilled in, incontrovertible. Stop. Not giggling. Not joking. Not "I know he didn't mean that." Just stop.

Buuuuuut on the other hand, this morning I discovered that this conversation could be part of my daily life:

Buster: STOP!
Chicken: Collaborate and listen!

AW SHIT Y'ALL. With three little words, my world just blew wide open.

Do I raise nice, nice babies or ice, ice babies?

Do I raise men who hold women in high regard, or men whose high top and fade is the stuff of 90's legend?

Are my grown-ass sons going to be like, "If there's a problem, yo I'll solve it," or "If there's a problem, yo I am happy to help if you ask, but I believe that you are just as capable of solving it as I am, because girl, I'm not a plumber either."

Do I want my sons to have a vibe that says, "I respect you," or "Will I ever stop? Yo, you don't know."

Do I want Chicken to be like, "Deadly, when I play a dope melody," or "Creepy, when I dope your appletini."

Will Buster be like, "Girlies on standby, waving just to say hi... and tell you to smile because society has programmed me to think I'm entitled to your attention," OR will he be like "Flying to Duluth on standby, waving just to say hi... because we went to high school together and I can't believe I'm running into you at the airport! So what have you been up to?"

(Runner-up for that last one: "Flying to Duluth on standby, waving just to say hi... excuse me, you dropped your wallet, here it is, have a nice day and I won't try to hug you.")

i'm on a roll
and it's time to go solo
rollin in my 5.0
with my ragtop down
so my hair can blow
the patriarchy's fucking mind

grabs ahold of me tightly"
asked if he could grab ahold of me tightly
and i thought about it
and then i said "no
i am not comfortable with that"
and he said
do you want to go get a coffee instead"
and i said
that sounds nice"


Me: Do you know how much I love you, baby?

Chicken: How much?

Me: A million bajillion.

Chicken: Woah, really?

Me: Actually it might even be more than that.

Chicken: Like thirty? Like thirty million thousand?

Me: More!

Chicken: What about this: seven hundred million ten thousand?


Chicken: More?

Me: MORE! 

Chicken: I don't know if I can count that high!

Me: Me neither, baby, but that's how much I love you!!! More than all the numbers in the world!!!!

Chicken: Wow! More than the stars in the sky?


Chicken: More than all the apples in all the trees in all the worlds?


Chicken: MOMMY!!!

Me: YES BABY!!!!

Chicken: Will you count to a thousand right now?

Me: Nope.

so good for you
so good for your skin
so good for your energy
so good for your

I tried "staying hydrated" for about a week, but I had to stop.

I simply could not deal with the consequences of drinking water.

I have a list of things that demand my attention every hour, and gosh, bladder, I'm sorry to say that we don't have any slots available for you at this time.

Until 45 gets booted, a cloaked sorceress bewitches my dishes to watch themselves, or one of the kids learns how to match socks and/or not hit people, you're going to have to take a number, good sir pee bag.

The problem with peeing is that it must be batched in a timely fashion. Peeing is not like folding laundry or reading the book club book, activities that you can kind of save up until you've got a good hour to settle in with them. If I could store up all my pee and just tap the tank for a solid 15 minutes at the end of the day I would hydrate like a motherfucker.

No, when you're hydrated you have to stop what you're doing... to go pee... ALL. THE. TIME.

If peeing this much is healthy, then just call me Nicolas Cage from Leaving Las Vegas.

For a person whose shower habits are "one time, for 45 minutes, every 7-10 days," I discovered that it is not possible to build the time into my schedule to pee, like, eleven times a day.

How are people doing this?

Do your children not throw open stall doors in public restrooms right when you stand to pull up your pants,  at the exact moment that someone else has opened the bathroom door which is conveniently placed directly in front of your stall door which is also now open so the guy buying four cases of Bud Light, a tub of Kroger brand petroleum jelly, and a Hungry Man gets a bonus full-frontal at the exact moment your vagina is no longer blocked from view by your kneecaps?

Do your children not regress to crawling on the floor in public restrooms despite having mastered the technical process of "walking on feet that are covered in shoes so as to prevent invisible pee particles of thousands of strangers from collecting in the finger creases on the hands you will shortly be rubbing all over my face" LITERALLY YEARS AGO?

When at home do your children not play calmly and lovingly together until you get up to pee, and then immediately peel their faces back to reveal the gray slime-covered alien tooth-monsters that lurk beneath their petal-pink skin, just waiting for the chance to strike?

I mean, you're reading words typed by a girl who has actually peed on her own hand wiping too early, because I HAD TO GET BACK OUT THERE. Not just once. A BUNCH of times.

Are my kids the only ones who do this???

(Side note: Should I start a parenting class called, "Don't worry: Your kids (probably) aren't the only ones who do this"?)

Anywho, that's why I cry salt crystals and pee bouillon cubes.


Gossip Girl