It’s My Potty and I’ll Cry If I Want To

In my mid-twenties when everything was a mess and I didn’t know what to do or how to get control over the rollercoaster of expectations of how my life was supposed to be, sometimes I… would just run to the restroom and have a little cry.

No one, not even in HR, wanted to confront a young woman who claimed to be pooping for 15 minutes and that’s why she wasn’t at her desk when you needed her today. Not if it was only once or twice a week at most.

The job I’ve got now, I could take a three hour lunch break and no one would even notice. So when it came time for the damn to finally break, I took a walk to the restroom. And I cried.

I can’t say it’s the first time I’ve done so since those early roller coaster days. I’ve been in the same stall, 7 months pregnant and trying to psych myself up to prick my own finger and check my glucose levels while crying hysterically because I was obviously a terrible mother for having gestational diabetes. I’ve been here at four months postpartum and suffering  from postpartum depression, trying to keep myself sane by reading Riverdale fanfic on my phone and crying because Betty and Jughead broke up again.

And I was in there today, composing a blog post in my head while freaking the eff out about money and work and childcare and healthcare and trying to explain to my White Man Privilege boss that I can’t just change my schedule on a whim because CHILDREN and SECOND JOB and PITIFULLY POOR PAY.

Not quite two decades later and despite all the progress I’ve made emotionally, financially, mentally, career-wise, lifestyle choices, everything EVERYTHING I’ve done, I’m still running to the bathroom to cry.

I’ve seen Parenthood. I know the roller coaster goes on forever. I know you can get off once in a while to puke it out and regroup before you get back on. But you have to get back on. You have to keep going. Because if you’re not in the arena with Brene Brown, well then you’re just not living your life.

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She likes the ride.

I’m telling myself to revel in the bathroom cries. They are a much deserved break in the facade of keeping it together. And no one–at work at least–will interfere with your Me Time as long as they think you’re pooping.


All the Robins Need to GO

Teen Titans Go! has an episode called Thanksgetting and I think it is the best representation of how I feel about holidays:

  1. To hell with tradition
  2. Eat what you want
  3. Wear costumes for fun
  4. Give/get presents
  5. Love your people

Other than what holidays are ACTUALLY about, isn’t that just the best way ever to celebrate? Just… have fun, eat good food, give someone you care about something they’ll care about and try not to be an asshole.

I really thought, as an adult, I’d be able to choose how I spend my holidays but somehow I have married into a family of Robins and my family were always Robins and my husband is so afraid of disappointing all the Robins that I’m just like… I’m like…

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I am SO the bored.


When I’d rather be like…

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Boom! Pow! Look, I’m a kitty now!

You know?

Anyway, here. Have an article about how to self-care during the holidays if everyone sucks and you hate it. So… good luck or whatever. I’ll just be over here in my Pink Power Ranger union suit trying to convince everyone that the Teen Titans are the sane ones in an insane world.

Because Underneath, We’re All Wearing Sports Bras

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Sometimes I feel this cheerleader vs band geek vibe with the ladies who Zumba in the studio next to my dojo. Here I am in my baggy uniform, focused on perfecting my technique and translating principles into action, the nerd who wants to do better, be better, learn and understand it all. And there they are in their neon spandex and crop tops, laughing and Instagramming and letting it all hang loose. They came here to party and exercise is the byproduct. And they’re not gonna let anyone forget that.

Back when I was a band geek, I watched those cheery bitches look down their perfect little noses at people like me and I thought, “What are you doing that I can’t do?” And then I said it out loud to anyone who would listen. And then, because I had something to prove, I did it. I tried out. I made the squad. I did everything those girls did! And I hated every second.

Not the cheerleading part. That was fun. But spending all that time with people who obviously had different values than me, who prioritized social events and physical appearance, whose ambitions were so far removed from mine that I questioned whether I wanted to even pretend to follow the path they were leading me down.

Eventually, I quit. I went back to band. I spent my time with people who liked the same things I liked, who wanted to be and to do similar things, whose friendships added to my high school experience rather than taking away from it. That’s where the value was, I thought, in comfort and support and belonging.

And that’s true. One of the things I keep reading about self-esteem in children and teenagers is needing to feel a sense of belonging. I never felt it on the cheer squad. I did in band. I do in the martial arts. Both of those activities helped me discover my strengths and weaknesses, my needs and wants in an environment where I felt cared for and supported. Those are the experiences that help us define ourselves.

The thing is, cheerleading was a valuable experience too and more so for the people it meant something to. So is Zumba. The whole goal of the place next door, their very mission statement, is to empower people (especially women) to feel good in their skin, to feel sexy and confident and to love their bodies in a healthy, productive way. I love it! I love the owner, who is fiery and passionate and inspiring. I love the way the members support each other openly on social media, praising accomplishments and coming together over tragedies. I even think Zumba itself is a pretty cool way to exercise if that’s your thing.

It’s just not my thing. It’s too loud, there are too many people, the neon lights and disco balls are too much for me and I don’t feel empowered by dancing. I feel empowered by fighting. I like moderately-lighted quiet rooms with plenty of space between people. I like to concentrate on what I’m doing and what I’m learning. I want to feel like I have control over my body and my movements and I want to be comfortable in loose-fitting clothes while I do it.

I prefer to spend my time with people who feel the same way as me. I’m sure the Zumba women do too.

And we’re not teenagers. For the most part, we’re middle-aged women trying to find time for ourselves outside of our children or families or work or responsibilities. We’re trying to relieve our stress before it destroys us, keep our bodies from falling apart when it feels inevitable, and we’re trying to take care of ourselves by surrounding ourselves with like-minded people with similar values and goals.

We’re more alike than unalike*, I remind myself when their music gets a little loud. We’re all here for the same reason, I say when someone from my world comments on theirs. We all deserve to feel like we belong and that we’re worth the effort, I stress to anyone who will listen, especially when they take up too much time in the single women’s bathroom we all share.

And also, this place needs more bathrooms.

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*My dojo had the Maya Angelou poem, Human Family, on the bulletin board recently.

How to Fill a Page

Before my first child was born, I told my OB/GYN that I was concerned I was a good strong candidate for some hardcore postpartum depression. She referred me to a therapist and suggested I see her before the birth so I could start working on coping strategies before the big event.

I spent three sessions of an hour each complaining about my mother-in-law.

Now, a good therapist–which she was not–would have read between the lines and addressed my issues with expressing emotion and how having a child was scary for me because it came alone with BIG EMOTIONS that I didn’t feel prepared for. My mother-in-law is a frequent expresser of emotions, you see. I did explain that. I did explain a lot of things. But when I said, “I don’t really think these sessions are helping me,” she said, “Well, you managed to fill the hour well enough.”

Let’s skip past the obviousness of her ineptitude and touch upon the most relevant nugget of wisdom for a busy person trying to fulfill a word quota for a Camp Nano project:

If you’re a good enough complainer, you can fill several hours–or several thousand pages–just with that. The good stuff, we’ll leave for next month when the pressure to perform is off.

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Tell me more about my paycheck…

Also, writing is my best therapy. It doesn’t always make for great copy but it does force me to express and examine my issues several times over. And it’s free.

Ill-defined Fun

In the spirit of John Cougar Mellencamp–because I can’t seem to get away from him lately–here’s a little story about Where I’m supposed to be right now, Why I’m not there, and How come I ain’t never goin’ back.

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When my son was six months old, I took him to Mommy and Me swim classes at a local gym with a small pool and weekday classes. “This’ll be fun!” I told my husband, who is anti-bodies of water and his submergence in them. And for 6 weeks, it was! We had a great instructor who sang songs and provided graduated steps for infant water integration and who I trusted enough to float my son around for 45 seconds.

So we signed up for a second class! “Oh, this’ll be so fun!” I told my little bundle of joy who took to the water like a reverse amphibian. But it was not. There was a new instructor who said to me on the very first day, “I’ve never worked with babies before. Let’s see how it goes!”

Oh. Oh no. No, no. You have no experience with babies and your best reassurance is “let’s see how it goes?” It did not go well for many reasons. But the reason I demanded a refund on my non-refundable class was that this woman encouraged us all to swim to the deep end holding our infants. Mmm… no, danger. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll just swim behind you in case something happens.” No.

Oh but that was years ago. So when I got an email advertising a Mommy’s Night Yoga course, I thought, “Oh, this could be fun!” But then I got a phone call while I was out with my husband this afternoon. He joked, “It’s the gym saying the class is cancelled.” Haha, three hours from start time? No way. YES way. Yes, they cancelled class three hours before it started after I planned my damn day around this thing.

Yes, they gave us a refund and offered me 1 free yoga class at the exact time my son has karate class tomorrow morning. Which is 1 day after the event they cancelled. Which was for busy moms who can’t find a moment to themselves. So… like, logically, said moms might need more than a 19 hour planning window.

In conclusion, this place needs to lose my email address like they’ve lost my trust.

I would like to thank my husband for taking the children out tonight so Mommy could at least get some writing time. You don’t dangle a kid-free evening in front of a stressed out mom and then YOINK it away like so much cartoon sandwich. It’s cruel.

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Russian Bots Aren’t My Problem

There are days I spend away from the internet and while I can’t say I feel refreshed and renewed (because I’m not out camping and enjoying nature so much as running the kids all over town and catching up on To Do tasks), I do feel moderately less annoyed with humanity.

I blame Facebook. For many things, actually, but hating other people has a lot to do with inane and/or offensive garbage I see on Facebook mostly from people I know in real life and the people they know in real life who maybe I need to know a little less about.

Twitter is a different story for me because I’m on there almost exclusively to engage the writing community and stalk Riverdale creators and actors. All of those people are lovely and I can easily ignore anyone who isn’t.

Instagram is fairly new to me, my personal account is private, and I really only engage with a select few people… and Riverdale creators and actors.

Tumblr, I abandoned long ago, back when raging Teen Wolf fans couldn’t handle life and stopped creating adorable memes to lash out in grammatically infeasible ways that hurt my brain.

And I don’t do anything else because I’m a Gen Xer and I’m too busy being broody and polishing my CD collection to learn anything new.

So I will continue to look at the pretty pictures on Instagram and play writer hashtag games on Twitter and feel all peach fuzz and puppies about it.

But how… do I get away… from Facebook? Honestly? I have business-related pages and an author page and a private friend group comprised entirely of pictures of my children so I can continue minimal interaction with family while still providing life updates. But I want to stop all the rest. How do you just… stop the rest? How do you kill the Facebook feed?


This is definitely me in a Calvin Klein crop top with my manicured nails and dangling bracelets being all addicted to social media and whatnot. Certainly not a generic pic that google has allowed me to use.

Being the Good Voice

Let me preface this preaching with a musical interlude:

I’ve been listening to a playlist in my car of new songs I’ve purchased in the order I’ve purchased them which is how I heard just now, on my way here, Believer by Imagine Dragons followed by Hall of Fame by The Script. “My life, my love, my drive, it came from PAIN!” followed by “You can be the greatest, you can be the best, dedicate yourself and you’ll be standing in the hall of fame.” As parenting philosophies according to popular music go, there’s a pretty clear winner in this battle.

Which made me start thinking about how children are influenced by their parents long after childhood ends.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, kids actually do listen to their parents and they really do internalize those things we say most often. As teens and adults, a lot of those things we said often become the voice in their head that guides them. For better or for worse.


I know of too many people for whom the voice in their head is that of fear or doubt, indecision, conformity, derision, punishment, undeservingness, lack of acceptance. It’s the voice that tells you you’ll never succeed, you’re too stupid or fat, too weak or too weird, that you should let someone else do it, that you’re not ok the way you are, that you should just melt into the background because every action is too much of a risk.

And with the lyrics of those two songs echoing in my head, I’m determined not to be that voice.

I want to be the voice in my kids’ heads that says…

You can do it

I believe in you

Make good decisions

Do your best

Try again 

Take care of yourself

Be respectful of others

Brush your teeth

Just try to go pee before we leave the house

Eat more good food than treats

I love you!

And then I hear my son say to himself, “That’s ok. Twy again. You can do it,” and I feel like maybe I’m doing an ok job at this whole parenting thing.

Pigs are for Bacon, Not That… not that

I’ve been hearing all the hullabaloo about Black Mirror and decided to dive in to season 1 the other day. I didn’t get past that first episode.

This is what people like to watch? I mean… besides the part with the pig? That was nasty enough. But… like… people enjoy being judged in such a cruel and demoralizing way on their viewing habits? Or did they just not get it?


Sadly, probably not.

Because it worked for me. I turned that crap off right quick and picked up a book.

Legit question: does the series get better? Or is it always pointing out how hollow a life lived in front of a screen can be?

Meanwhile, have you seen Kevin (Probably) Saves the World? It’s like, a Black Mirror antidote.


I… yeah, I’d rather be watching Kevin. The real world is harsh enough.


How to Deal with the Indecisive

I have this simple rule with my toddler when I have to ask him the same question more than 3 times: If you won’t decide, then I’ll do it for you.

It always works. Either he makes the decision quickly–which is what usually happens–or I do and the thing gets done.

Meanwhile, I asked my husband 5 or 6 times to help me decide who and in what order to put the emergency contacts on my son’s preschool enrollment application and he has blown it off repeatedly. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I decided, it’s done, and now he has no say in the matter.

So… henceforth… my toddler rule applies to EVERYONE.

Listen up, all the indecisive people in my life:


and guess what else: