You know what really bugs me?

The whole work/stay-at-home mom thing. It really gets up my nose.

There. I've said it.

Here's one thing: Someone says, as my one kid is sitting on my shoe, another tugging one of my hands and saying Mom, mom, mom ... mom, mom ... mom ... MOM ... and the third has his head under my shirt and his hand cupping my breast, and I'm having this conversation with someone and they say, "So, where do you work?" or, you know, "What do you for work?" to which I reply, "Oh, I don't work," because, well, I don't.

And of course, they feel obligated to say, "Oh, you work. You work harder than the rest of us."

There is often something condescending or ... something ... maybe well, yucky, in this statement, like they have to give me kudos or an ego boost, poor SAHM with no self-esteem kind of thing and it really annoys me. Because, Hello?! I've worked. Work? Was EASY. This gig is NOT work.

I don't get coffee breaks nor lunch. My bosses, all three of them, have no problem whinging, yelling and even raging at me if I don't do things in exactly the way they think things should be done. Things like, you know, dressing a Barbie, cutting an apple, or wiping a bum. And YES. We have BARBIES. Get Over It.

Truthfully, I have no real skills for this gig -- I suck at cleaning and organising, only want to cook things that inspire me edible or not, prefer to not speak to anyone for most of the day, and don't sleep enough to be the nice person a mom is supposed to be.

I don't remember when I've been in the bathroom without having the door opened on me. Work stalls have locks, right? Contractors regularly poke their nasty heads into the room I sleep in to ask me a question I probably have no answer for, whether or not I am up and dressed. I haven't had a bedroom in 5 years. And you know what? I, the girl who read a book a day as a child hasn't finished a book all year, something that I accomplished quite often on the commute to and from work and in the bathroom stalls at the offices I worked in. (Joking) (kind of).

The thing is? I wouldn't give up this gig now that it's mine. It wasn't something I longed for per se, not like playing Sally Bowles in Cabaret or anything, but I really really love it now that I'm in the hot mess of the middle of it. It is unpredictable and crazy, I get hugged all the time, the problems that need to be addressed or solved are usually more easily fixed when accompanied by a kiss and/or a hug. Last time I tried that on a co-worker, it didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped. (Kidding.) (Really.)

But I don't like it when people have to have an opinion on being a stay-at-home or working mom. My grandmothers were both working moms. So was my own mom. I have three brothers-in-law who have, at various times, performed the stay-at-home thing. Who cares? Why quantify or qualify that I work or I don't. I mean, have you seen my home and gardens? If I were on top of them, them I would be a SLAVE, because last time I checked, there will be no pension for what I am doing, no paycheck. And I'm okay with that because I'll figure that out when I do, or I'll be totally screwed and I'll still figure it out.

Because who says life is all 9-5, 2 coffee breaks and a lovely lunch in the city in my one red Ferragamo shoe? (Don't ask what happened to the other. It was a long time ago, in a land far, far away. And it didn't involve Robert Redford, although it was supposed to have. And I lost a beloved shoe. One. And Quentin Tarantino was there. I have pictures to prove it. But don't ask.)

You know why it bugs me? (The work question/answer, not the missing shoe.) It makes me cross-eyed because because I don't actually care if people other than my husband and children think I work. It doesn't matter to me the same way it doesn't matter to me if some other mother works. I know what I'm doing right now, and why, and I don't need someone else to validate it.

I think I'd better write next about how much it bugs me that people mothers get all in knots over whether I am judging them because I stay at home/pooped my kids in the toilet from birth/breastfed/sold my car/ride a trike with a bin on the front for the kids.

Honestly? I just care if yer happy dudes. It matters immensely to me. But I won't judge you if you are not because, hello? Life is hard work. Seriously. Go easy on yourselves. Because if you go easier on yourselves, you will go easier on me. I guarantee it. And that? Well, it's just better for all of us that way.

And isn't that what really matters?

*******

This is too long, isn't it.

In my next life? I am going to be succinct and brief.

And also?

A bug.

*******

Sharing

I just want to tell you all that Lisa? At Seeking Elevation? She's really, really good. Like this good.

That is all. Enjoy fine, fine writing. (And those two fine's should be read with two definitions, neither of which are akin to the stock lie-answer "I'm FINE.")

Because I have to know ...

When I was a child, words like barf and fart were not within my scope of language. (I can't believe I wrote those. I typed them. Here.)

When I was a child, I met such words with a pursed-lip revulsion because I existed within a very narrow world. Indeed and completely without pride I confess I was a holier-than-everyone kind of a gal. For years. What can I say? I'm working on it.

I wonder if my very proper German-Canadian grandmother, who expected us to declare after dinner we were "sufficiently suffonsified", was at the root of my stuffiness. Wouldn't it have been a bit clearer and easier, at 6, to state "I'm full" or, quelle horreur, "Oosh, am I stuffed". (Thanks Nana, RIP, I have impressed many a word nerd with that near perfect specimen of a word).

Personally, I like to blame all things quirky on the dearth of extended family in my youth. No blacksheep aunts and uncles to make our holiday dinners interesting, actually no aunts and uncles at all. So no rougher cousins to teach us nasty things while huddled in the basement under shelves that groaned with preserves. Nothing to be learned but not to be repeated in front of the oldsters. Maybe that, that was it.

But what I do know for certain is that, as I work diligently toward shedding that image I always had of myself as both better and way, way less likeable and capable as everyone else (I know, right?!) and as I strive to provide my children with a more level-headed entree into the world, I find that what I really want is to get over that pursed-lip girl I was, so many moons ago.

And so. Without further ado. I ask you all:

Barf, ralph, puke, vomit, chuck or even upchuck? We exclusively said "throw up". Later I added purge.

Ginch or gaunch? Knickers, tighty (gag) whiteys? I missed this debate entirely. Underwear, and probably undies.

Fart? We never did that at Casa Cox. We absolutely and pathologically held 'em in. Tightly. We said (insert Erkel voice here): "who had gas?" and wrinkle our noses.

Now I teach my kids toot and fluff, which are both totally lame-ass, I know, but also cute. I mean I kinda want fart to be an inappropriate word they "wouldn't" say in front of their mother, the one for which I can practice my lying disapproving face and a smirk.

Even snot could earn us a smack or a glare. We never called those green things boogers or my personal favourite, booger nuggets. Honestly, I guess we just said we had a runny nose. (Yawn).

Is it any wonder I spent most of my childhood trying to fit in, and all of my adult life figuring out how, how, how to get that stick out of my ass?

So I want all the best words from your past. And the ones you are teaching your kids. Do you care if they know with whom it is appropriate to use these words, or are they simply a part of their everyday vocabulary?

Please. Because I have a psychotic urge loosen my kids up (they're horrified by orange cheese, people), but what is too loose? My children's futures are in your hands. Give me all you've got, the good, the bad, the crass and the ugly. Seriously. I'm desperate.

Self accept.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about self acceptance. Acceptance of self. Feeling okay about who one (I) is and what one (I) does.

I is and I does, I like it.

Today I experienced a really wild and crazy lesson in this exact thing.

A while back I wrote a piece: Where I am from.

Today, weeks later, I received a brief but welcome comment. It prompted me to go and read what I had written.

When I wrote the piece, I totally felt like I had not hit the mark, like mine wasn't as superb as the woman who's piece made me write mine. I was glad I'd made the effort, it was definitely a stretch for me, someone who really doesn't *get* the poetry thing often. But I really felt like mine was not enough.

Not enough.

Recently I thought, gee, I should go back and re-write my piece, give it another shot. But you know what the chances of that are, re-writing something on the blogosperical?

But today I re-read that post because someone came to visit and generously left a few precious words. And I cried. (I know!)

Because the piece? It is as beautiful as all of the pieces that are written using this prompt, whether to the letter like this one by Everything and no one... like the last mom on earth by a woman who makes me love being a woman, or loosely, and with freedom, like this one at Bugginword, written by an amazingly crazy writer who makes my head spin in all of the best ways and came to my post by way of a new and yummy blogpal. She also makes me glad I was born girl.

I tell you all, all [holy cow! 17 of you! (or more) holy eminereffiner] who read this post. While I am not really concerned about growing this little space of mine, I am grateful for each and every pair of eyes (or singles, if that's all you use to read this; or sightless people, if you use a reader) that I am humbled and grateful for each of you, for what you bring to my little corner of the world, whether in quiet spirit or in comment. I'm so grateful that you are here, slugging it out with me.

But today? I'm thankful for the comments of a stranger that gave me the impetus to reread my own words and to realise that they are, indeed, good enough for me.

Losing time ...

After a few weeks off, I'm taking up the 100 Word Challenge once again. I love the brevity, and reading everyone else's storytelling. It's a kind of computer game I can totally groove on. This week's word is Forward.

Losing time

She couldn’t believe it. She reads the email again. $2500. She cannot afford that! But therapy is helping, and the potential of a week intensive with a psychologist known to have success in treating multiple personality disorders is impossible to pass up.

But $2500! How can she, who could barely stay present for an hour -- never mind remain employed -- come up with the cash?

She has a connection from the days when she lived on a razor’s edge. It’s a dangerous game but its money. As she clicks on forward, she feels her face shift and herself recede ...

Join in, or check out the other stories:

I've written a guest post ...

I was asked a couple of months ago (okay, March) to write a guest post for my farmer -- who also has a Doctorate in Communications ... 8-0 -- about why I choose to source my family's summer vegetables through a Community Support Agriculture (CSA) program. While on my part it is an intensely political move, the bonus of obtaining the very best produce all summer long by simply putting my money upfront and walking a block and a half to someone's back porch on a weekly basis makes the choice all the more satisfying.

And so, without further ado, my post at Glen Valley Organic Farm. Feel free to comment there or, if you prefer, to come back here and tell me what you think of the CSA model in today's world.

Where I am from ...

I am from tea cups and saucers and coloured sugar, from shredded wheat and public radio.

I am from the hills high above a peat bog, the squishy sponge dirt filled with stinky ponds, wet-land vegetation, beasts and bugs, and long since conquered by miles of blacktop and fast-moving metal dinosaurs.

I am from a pile of boulders and a transplanted California redwood that grew so fast its tip touched the heavens, far above.

I am from small family feasts and a pathological need for non-exposure, from Brenda and Anita and Carmen.

I am from righteousness and sincerity.

From gifted and undeserving.

I am from the Catholic Church, a place that is so far behind me it is gone.

I'm from a short but very teary stint in Ottawa, Ontario and a blood so mixed nobody knows its provenance; perfect pies and overcooked bitter greens.

From a man who, at 80, is still mourning the death of his father some 70 years previous and a woman who has felt completely isolated since birth, despite having created a large and devoted family. From an exclusive club of a sisterhood full of acceptance, cooperation and support, despite all odds.

I am from a collection of family slides, carelessly or deliberately lost in divorce by one bitter side or the other. My personal pictures are instead stored in my mind's eye, but have been newly relocated in a bin of slides taken by my long-dead grandmother, recently spirited from a garage and digitised to create a new story of my family's collective past for our children.

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I may have mentioned a blogger I follow who's writing moves me to no end. She recently posted about bathing suit season in a way that expressed everything I've always wanted to say about the subject, in a way that will change how I feel while poolside this summer. Her childhood sounded pretty hardscrabble, but her chosen life appears real and blessed, not because she deserves it but rather because she has found it and commits herself to it, and to her beautiful family, on a daily basis. Amanda inspires me.

Today she posted something called "Where I am from" ... and included a link to a template anyone can use to create an interesting telling of their history. The above is my "Where I am from". Why not create your own, and leave it here or on your blog? Either way, let me know so I can learn from where you come.