There is a merry-go-round inside my head where I sit for hours each day, spinning around, past, and between the question: what do I want? More specifically, what do I want to do with my time given the things that I must do and how I want to do them and what I feel will give me the greatest chance at happiness or, looked at another way, the best possibility of a living a life of which I am proud and with which I am content, more often than not.

The answer to date: I have no fucking idea.

First, let me acknowledge the uber first-world-problems nature of this question. I have a choice. I have so many choices in terms of what I might do and when and how I might do it. I don’t have to work a full-time job. I could probably get away with mostly volunteering. And, while I do have three small children, I also have a lot of help with caring for them. I am a full-time mom — we all are — but I do not provide their minute-by-minute care day in and day out (praise be).

Counterpoint: money and time and help do not fix anything unless you actively use them to make your life better, like really better in a sustained, worthy, purposeful way.

Currently, I spend my not-immediate-mom-or-other-household-related time at work. I don’t love my job but going to work, even a few days a week, flips a switch for me that says I am useful, to my family and others, I am earning money to pay (some) of my family’s cost of living, I am using the graduate degree I spent years attaining, and pursuing the career I’ve spent over a decade building. Which would all be great, except that going to work is also a massive trigger for my anxiety and depression, so much so that I’ve had to take two leaves of absence in the past three years, one that lasted over a year, and the other of which started after I sent an email asking for leave from a hospital bed in the ICU. Obviously, work is not the cause of my illness(es) but working, especially since my twins were born, has been a major precipitating factor in some of the very worst periods of my life.

And yet, I keep going back, like some punch-drunk boxer who thinks if she just keeps getting up, keeps staggering back to the center of the ring, that somehow she won’t get knocked down again. This time, it will be different. I will take on less, take more breaks, only do certain kinds of projects for certain people, work from home on Fridays, and so on and so forth, as if it’s all a matter of (illusory) work-life balance and not life and death.

But it is a matter of life and death and on the days I can hold that truth steady in my mind and heart, I know I need to quit. And yet, god damn it, I am not a quitter. I refuse to concede defeat. I can do this, this thing where you do all the things and be happy more often than not. I see it being done all around me. All of the lovely lives with make-up and fashionable clothes and eyes that aren’t red from crying, with children who get haircuts and use cutlery and probably don’t have to listen to their mom begging them to please just stop because she can’t, she just can’t right now (or ever). Women with multiple kids, full-time jobs, and husbands who work long hours and travel and, yet, somehow they just can, when I can’t.

I understand that comparison is the death of joy. That I don’t know other women’s lives. But the idea of quitting my job tears open in a me a wound of profound sadness and shame. A wound I want to plaster over as quickly as possible and by whatever means so that I don’t have to feel that pain. The pain of failure.

It was not supposed to be this way. I am not supposed to be this way. Somewhere along the way something went terribly wrong and it must be my fault. This is how it feels when I think about quitting.

But, in actuality, quitting my current job is, at its core, accepting that my life is the way it is and that I am the way I am and that working is not helping me create a life worth living. It is doing the opposite. It is taking the hard parts of my life and making them harder and taking so many of the good parts away.

My life is just as it is and was meant to be for a million different reasons none of which can be changed because they already happened and were themselves a result of a million things that came before. I am failing my life only to the extent that I am choosing not to live it in the way I know will best protect me and provide me with the most happiness. Not walking away from a form of work that continues, for whatever reason, to break me because I am afraid of doing the wrong thing is not merely ironic; it is heartbreaking. I am breaking my own heart.

And I have had enough. I will turn 40 years old in two weeks and I am no longer willing to live my life worried about what other people might think, or, more importantly, what I might think about myself because I can’t tell the difference between what I think I should do and what I actually want. I have to find my wants, to listen and feel for them every day, until I have one in my hand and then run with it, as fast and as far as I can, before I can convince myself it’s not real or good or right. I have to learn how best to love myself so that I can embrace a life that grows that love. I need to quit failing myself by pushing through rather than pulling back to my center. Because I am enough. And I have had enough of my own bullshit. It’s time to get off the merry-go-around, to do the terrifying, first right thing.

A less good dog mom

In 2007, one year into our marriage, my husband and I adopted a dog. She was a one-year-old, chocolate lab. We picked her up in a town north of Davis, California, where she was being fostered pending adoption. She spent most of her time outside in an old horse corral of red dirt. When her foster dad brought her inside, she immediately climbed onto the couch to cuddle with her blue blanket. A blue electric blanket, for obvious reasons. He told us, accurately, that she was very sweet, easy going, and never barked. He also told us she would eat anything, except eggs. This was a lie. She ate eggs.

We drove the hour or so back to Oakland with Sadie in the backseat, cuddled up with my best girl, Stefanie. Except at that point, Sadie wasn’t Sadie. She was Angel. And since that was not happening, the three of us spent the drive rattling off all the people/dog names we could think of until Sadie, and that was it. (We also gave her a middle name, Apples, which was what my husband had wanted to name his childhood dog but had been outvoted).

We arrived home with a new dog and a backseat completely covered in red dirt. I refused to let Sadie inside her new house. Instead, we walked her around to the backyard and gave her the most gloriously transformative dog bath ever. Rivulets of red dirt covered the green grass and when she coughed little puffs of it escaped her mouth. Sadie turned about five shades darker during the course of that bath. She was a dark chocolate chocolate, like 72 percent cacao.

At first, since we didn’t know much about Sadie except that she used an electric blanket and didn’t eat eggs (allegedly), we decided not to give her free run of the house when we were gone during the day. Instead, we would pen her in the kitchen with access to the backyard through a dog door. This idea worked better in our heads. After Sadie had eaten through a variety of impediments, including the backdoor, a soft crate, and part of a bookshelf, we decided to just let her have the house. Apart from her trying to bury a rawhide bone in the leather couch, this proved to be the better approach.

At the time we adopted Sadie, Matt was in business school and I was working obscene hours at a large law firm. I took her running with me in the morning. Matt checked in on her during the day. I did evening walk. Etc. We also hired our landlord’s son to walk her once, sometimes twice, a day. We were extremely eager first time dog parents.

One night, Matt had to travel for a business school competition, I had to work later than anticipated, and I couldn’t uber/tinder/amazon services someone to walk my dog because 2007, so Sadie had to wait. And she did. While slowly eating through three hardcover books, toppling the coat rack, and chewing the foam core of Matt’s bike helmet into teeny-tiny bits. She missed us.

Having no human babies, I was very enthusiastic about caring for and educating my dog baby. I did extensive food-related research and sampling before deciding on the perfect organic, easily digestible, hipster-approved brand of chicken and rice dry dog food. Leather leash, check. Charming designer collar (chocolate cupcakes on a pink background), check. Engraved name tag, check. Ridiculously expensive poofy circle bed with bolster, check. You see where I’m going here.

As for the training, I read many, many books about how to be my dog’s best friend, which I ultimately boiled down to walking around the neighborthood feeding her hotdog bits as she sat before crossing each intersection. Then, I got distracted and, basically, the sitting at corners thing became the only properly-trained dog behavior in her repotiore.

Oh, and because we were worried about her being lonely, we started taking her to doggy daycare two days a week. Like you do when you have no children and time to transport a dog across town multiple times a week. They gave her a name tag: Sadie B. Because there was another Sadie in her class.

The daycare had cameras set up so you could watch your dog and make sure she was doing okay and making friends and taking good naps. The picture quality wasn’t great but I could always tell which dog was Sadie B. because she would spend most of the day right by the gate, hopping, checking to see if we had arrived for pick-up.

Sadie’s love of hopping was exceeded only by her love of hopping into water. She loved the bay. She loved her kiddie pool in the backyard (I know). Perhaps most of all, she loved the disgusting, homemade coy pond in the yard nextdoor to Matt’s grandparent’s house in Sacramento. Wet dog plus dirt plus fish equals all the windows down all the way home.

After two years in Oakland, we moved to Denver. I flew out after a crazy month of trial work, which included me sitting on a box in our empty dining room furiously typing on my laptop while the movers carried our things out to the truck. Matt and Sadie, on the other hand, took a leisurely drive cross-country, making multiple river-adjacent stops along the way so she could swim. Did I mention my husband was her favorite parent? Which worked out, as I soon became the favorite parent of our first human child because I am the mom. I also became a less good dog mom after our son was born.

Motherhood freaked me the fuck out. I had heard of postpartum depression, but nobody mentioned postpartum anxiety, which would have helpfully explained why I was spending naptime checking the expiration dates on and then cleaning all of the cans in our pantry. I put “empty the dishwasher” on my to-do list and then panicked a little about it. Also: nearly dying whenever Henry touched a grocery cart handle or restaurant high chair; nursing only in the nursing chair, with the nursing pillow, at the nursing time (I would walk away mid-conversation to make this happen); buying multiple weather-related carseat covers appropriate for Alaska; vacuuming everyday; preferring never to leave the house; and crying. Crying all the time.

I spent five months on maternity leave. Sadie was there through all of it and I am so ashamed that she often bore the brunt of my fear. I started running again too soon after having Henry and would take Sadie with us. Me, the baby, the stroller, the dog. Running. It was so plainly a terrible idea and yet, when the inevitable happened — Sadie pulled, I staggered, the stroller tipped, and Henry fell — I let loose all of my guilt and fear and rage at that fear on Sadie. As it if were her fault, being a dog who pulls at a leash.

I yelled when she made a mess because I did not have cleaning up Sadie’s mess within the scope of my abilities most days. I put her outside. I told her to go, to get away from me. I told her she was a bad dog.

But she wasn’t a bad dog. She was such a good, sweet older sister to Henry. One of my all time favorite moments — which should have set off red flares of anxiety — was when Henry was eating one of his first solid foods, a mum-mum, and he shared it with Sadie. One slobbery bite for Henry, one slobbery bite for Sadie. And so forth. The video of this on my phone is shaky because I could not not laugh. And Sadie only ever snapped at baby Henry once, when he pulled her whiskers, which I thought was totally justified and scolded Henry, not her, for what had happened. We taught Henry to give Sadie gentle touches, and she dutifully let herself be gently touched.

Gentle touches for Sadie.

We had our lovely moments. But not enough, not nearly enough. And then the twins were born.

Having twins blew me apart, as extensively chronicled in this blog, such that even now, almost four years later, I am still picking up my pieces and fitting them back together. I lost my mind and with it my moral compass. Apart from my children and my marriage, I wanted to burn it all down, and some days nothing seemed worth saving, least of all myself, least of all my dog. My dog who seemed to do nothing but decimate our lovely wooden interiors and puke on the carpet. My dog who brazenly stole food from my toddler’s hand as it was moving towards his mouth. My dog who needed to be fed, walked, let outside in the middle of the night, and taken to the vet to have her teeth cleaned. She was like the fourth child when I had wanted only two. I seethed at her.

Sadie asked less of me than anyone else and yet I resented her the most. Except when I didn’t. Except when I would catch myself about to point and yell and say bad dog and would instead crumple to the floor, wrap my arms around her neck, and whisper cry my apologies into her ear. I’m so sorry, Sadie. You are such a good girl. Such a good girl. And she would nuzzle right back, as if to say none of the horrible things I had done made me less worthy of her love.

As the kids got older, things got better and better between us. They could never be what they were, with the hotdog bits and weekend outings to the bay just to see how big of a stick she could carry back to shore, but I tried to love her as best I could no matter how many bagels she stole from the breakfast table. I walked her, brushed her, and let the kids feed her too many treats. I made sure she had all of her check ups. I scratched her just right behind her ears. I helped her get up when she was stiff after a nap. I placed and replaced the carpet strips on the back stairs so she wouldn’t slip going outside.

About a year ago, Sadie developed a fatty tumor on her right hind leg. Nothing to get excited about. But it kept growing and eventually the vet recommended we have it removed, just in case. They came to do bloodwork on a Monday and she threw up. Labs came back normal and surgery was set for Wednesday. She threw up that morning, surgery was canceled, and she stopped eating. Friday’s ultrasound found cancer in her liver and spleen. I drove to meet my husband at the hospital, shaking with grief, tears and snot streaming down my face, making no effort to wipe them away.

We spent about 30 minutes with her before ringing the little button to let the doctor know we were ready even though we weren’t ready at all. She came. She explained what she was going to do with the white vial and then the pink. My husband couldn’t stay. He had loved her best of all and was too heartbroken to be in that room at the end. I stayed.

I stayed because I am her person and you need your person when it is time. I held her close and we touched noses as if to say I’m sorry and I forgive you and I love you and I will miss you. Then, she was gone. I may have been a less good dog mom after becoming a human mom but I was there for her. I loved her. Always.

Welcome to the parenthood


The crew, minus the three-year-old, who still goes to daycare, thank God.

Here in the parenthood, things are a little bit different. Let’s start with matters of personal hygiene:

First, you may willingly catch projectile vomit in your hands, because washing your hands is easier than cleaning vomit out of the carpet. I’ve done this on multiple occasions including on my birthday.

You will certainly allow your child to wipe his or her bodily fluids on your clothing. And then you’ll wear said clothing out of the house, sometimes multiple days in a row, and regardless of whether you remember the goop is there.

And poop, previously one of the most disgusting things you could encounter, becomes, well, less of a big deal. Yes, you wash your hands if they get poop on them, but you don’t run screaming from the room or scrub your hands with bleach.

Showering without an audience may become a luxury. And you may be called upon to give impromptu anatomy lessons to your young audience members. The different means of urination of different family members may be a particularly popular topic.

Here in the parenthood, your pop-culture knowledge will suddenly make you feel incredibly old and yet totally up-to-date. For instance, you will know the theme song to most of the currently popular children’s tv shows better than your own wedding song. However, you will recognize only a few artists on any music award show (including the ones receiving some sort of lifetime achievement award).

And while you may try to continue listening to your favorite rap songs while driving the children around town somehow the cursing and misogyny will become more apparent and less tolerable and you’ll end up switching to kid music (I highly recommend the band Play date, btw).

In terms of technology, you may (often) forget to charge your own phone but you will never, ever forget to charge the kids’ iPad. Particularly if you have both an infant and an older child, the iPad will be an invaluable means of accomplishing important daily tasks such as: dressing your child, feeding your child, and distracting your child so it doesn’t harm your infant.

While it may be necessary at times, try to limit giving your child access to your phone. I guarantee he or she will do something totally strange and/or embarrassing with it within a matter of minutes (e.g., change your keyboard to the Cyrillic alphabet or post nonsense to your Facebook account).

As for your health, getting a workout in will be tough, but you can sometimes manage by sacrificing other things like sleep or your lunch hour. However, regardless of your attempts to stay fit and healthy, you will be so very sick, horrendously sick, sick all the time, sicker than you’ve ever been in your entire life.

When I was pregnant with our twins and my oldest was in daycare, I contracted laryngitis, a respiratory infection, and a sinus infection all within the first trimester. And of course I couldn’t take any real drugs to make me feel better because, you know, babies. Stupid netti pot is dead to me. Bring on the amoxicillin.

Functional over fashionable is also a major trend in the parenthood. For instance, I didn’t cut my hair for nearly 10 months during my second pregnancy (even though long hair doesn’t really suit me) because, duh, ponytail. My ratio of sweatpants to jeans increased astronomically. And makeup was simply a non-starter until I went back to work. Even now, it might be optional on mornings when we are running late, except I need it to distract from the sleep-deprivation consequences to my face. I swear, I never really looked my age until I had kids. Now, there’s no question I’m closer to 40 than 30.

Speaking of functional, I’ve been considering LASIK lately because glasses are just one more thing to forget as I’m rushing to leave the house, but apparently they are good eye protection (seriously, look it up, most common parental injury is scratched cornea; see also concussion and broken nose). Thankfully my oldest now reminds me to find both my glasses and my keys whenever we are preparing to leave the house. Apparently, the three-year-old already has a better memory than I do.

Residents of the parenthood are often over-caffeinated, but not at our house. My husband gave up caffeine years ago; I gave it up for pregnancy and nursing and have yet to go back full-time, mostly because I already feel like I’m having a heart attack most mornings. I love coffee but it’s just not worth it (at least not yet).

I have a similar relationship with wine right now. It calls to me daily, particularly during the witching hour, but the consequences of having to get up in the middle of the night after drinking a couple glasses of wine is just not worth it (at least not yet).

In the parenthood the division of household chores becomes key to the survival of your marriage because there is SO MUCH MORE to do. The laundry, OMG, don’t even get me started. Plus grocery shopping and Target runs. Not to mention the occasional vacuuming to keep dog hair from becoming your baby’s first solid food. You’ve got to divide and conquer that shit. Otherwise, no sex. Seriously, I mean it. Nothing is more of a turn off than having to do all that stuff plus childcare all by yourself. And going to the grocery store plus doing a load of laundry? That is damn sexy.

Speaking of sex, in the parenthood things are a bit less spontaneous and may need to go a whole lot more quickly. Not a lot of time for getting in the mood and not many places in the house the kids can’t storm into at any given moment. After the kids are in bed is probably the safest time, but by then you’re likely to be exhausted and also having sex then requires sacrificing precious, precious sleep time.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The parenthood is not a totally bleak, sexless, unhygienic, unfashionable, Jay-z free place. There’s always nap time (unless you’ve got a bad napper, in which case, well, they have to move out eventually, I think).

The Worst Hard Time

I have read at least one other blogger (totally inappropriate mom) refer to early the adolescence/pre-teen years as “The Promised Land” of parenting. It’s the stage when your kids become mostly independent little beings but are not yet embarrassed to hang out with you. They can dress themselves, wipe their own butts, put themselves to bed, etc. My husband and I talk a lot about reaching “The Promised Land,” about friends and aquaintences already there, and friends getting close. 

We talk about “The Promised Land” because we feel so very far from that coveted place. We have a just turned three-year-old and four-month-old twins. We are all about butt wiping and putting other people to bed in this house. 

Because we are basically on the opposite end of the parenting spectrum, I thought we needed a equally colorful descriptor for our own situation. I decided, some what facetiously, on “The Worst Hard Time”(which is actually the title of a fabulous book about the Great Depression by Timothy Egan that you should all go read, as soon as you finish reading this post and all of my archives you may have missed).

On a side note, I can’t believe there was a time in my life, not so long ago actually, that I could free read books on the Great Depression.

For ease of reference, you know you’re living through “The Worst Hard Time” when: 

  • You experience sleep interruption anywhere from one to six times a night;
  • You have a changing station complete with diaper genie on every level of your house;
  • You own more bottles and sippy cups than you do wine glasses (by a lot; and the former get a hell of a lot more use than the latter);
  • You plan outings with adult friends who also have children and then hardly talk to each other the entire time except to say hello and goodbye because you’re too busy chasing your kids and/or feeding and changing and your kids;
  • You own a great deal of hand sanitizer and yet never remember or have time to use it;
  • All you want to do by the end of the day is lay on your back on the hard, hard floor and think about the day when you will never have to pick anyone up again;
  • The only classical music you recognize comes from your children’s baby Einstein toys;
  • You’ve seen one, maybe two, Oscar contenders in the last few years but you’ve seen every damn episode of Paw Patrol since the beginning of time in the last two weeks;
  • You only shower out of necessity (for instance, when you go to put your hair into a ponytail in the morning and realize that it is caked with spit up) or as a means of hiding from your children for a blessed five minutes while someone else deals with them;
  • There is laundry to be done, so much laundry every damn day;
  • You become so adept at communicating baby-related breakdowns via text that your significant other knows to stop to pick up dinner on the way home from work without being directly asked to do so;
  • Your in-laws, who are good with babies and live nearby, are your new squad;
  • Your oldest child is getting a boatload more screen time than he ever could’ve wished for, while you’re younger ones live in those bouncy-jumper things until they either start screaming or fall asleep;
  • You save the one pair of pre-pregnancy jeans that you can finally fit back into for special occasions only (otherwise, sweatpants);
  • Your hair stylist compliments you on how fabulous your ends look even though you haven’t been able to get in for a cut in 10 months (you explain it’s because you no longer blow dry or otherwise style your hair – ever);
  • You could not survive without Amazon prime (seriously, household necessities cannot be obtained by any other reasonable means);
  • You can’t take a step in your basement without tripping over some sort of toy, fort, or train set;
  • You are generally in bed well before 9 pm because you’re so incredibly exhausted, yet manage to stay awake another two to three hours wasting time on your phone (say, writing yet another “mom” blog).

So yeah, we are definitely living in “The Worst Hard Time” and will be for (gulp) years to come. But some blessed day we too shall reach “The Promised Land” and have only our own butts to wipe.