New Year, Slightly Different But Ultimately The Same You

It has been 2018 for six days.


I don’t know if I ever shared this here, but I have never been much for New Year’s in general. Or at least, I wasn’t for years. Because I measure my own personal year by my birthday (which is in August, which when I was younger coincided nicely with new school years starting) and I’ve been following the wheel of the year since I was fifteen (which usually places the new year in October) I just didn’t have any use for the first of January. I mean sure, there’s remembering to put a different number on that first rent check, but on a personal level, the Gregorian calendar never held much for me.

Until I met the person who would become my spouse.

My spouse was born on New Year’s Day. But not just on New Year’s Day, something like fifteen seconds after midnight. She was the first baby born in our state the year she was born. There was a photograph of her mother, exhausted and beaming, cradling my spouse as a newborn, in the local paper. The story goes that they played “Sweet child Of Mine” on the radio in celebration.

All of this meant I found myself getting on board with all that New Year’s stuff. After nearly six years together (how is it six?) it’s become second nature to me. Last year we did one of those “good things in 2017” jars. And frankly, we did it because we knew it was going to be a hard year. And we were not wrong. And sure, we did forget to add things to the jar about halfway through the year. But it was still fun to empty it out and think about the little moments we would have forgotten if we hadn’t done it.

In 2017 I guilt a trellis out of cut mulberry branches in our backyard, and then one day, miraculously, the thing started to grow.

In 2017 our kid learned how to say “please.”

In 2017 we went on a camping trip as a family. At the beach on Lake Michigan, our two year old was convinced it was the ocean. He was certain that he had only one task there: to find The Heart Of Tefitti.

In 2017 there were also struggles, illnesses, financial problems, heartaches, and of course constant political anxiety. But hey, we made it, right? I mean, look at us, we’re still here.


Now it is a brand new year, and I’m feeling much more optimistic than last year. I have started out the year by giving myself the gift of focusing on my work, while also attempting to achieve some sort of balance and not work myself into the ground. I have big goals for myself, which is a little big frightening and a little bit thrilling at the same time.

A number on a calendar isn’t nothing, but it is a small something. It’s a marker of time, a way to measure change and progress. We are changing and progressing.

That feels like it’s worth celebrating.


Harvest Traditions, Seasonal Shifts

I’m learning to be ok with being horribly behind on everything. My therapist says that beating myself up for not being perfectly productive is a problem. She says “how’s that working out for you?” and I sheepishly admit that putting more pressure on myself makes me less capable, rather than more.

I have a three ring binder and a stack of paper in my dining room, which I keep meaning to make into a cookbook. I do not like cookbooks. I like to make up my own recipes, I like to refuse to measure my ingredients most of the time, and I like to memorize things rather than looking at a book. There is a problem though. At 22, I could keep all of my recipes stored in my brain, and call them up on a whim. At 32, there are a lot more recipes, and a lot more other things to remember. I find myself googling the recipes I started with, and then trying to remember my changes and improvisations from last time. So I got the binder so I could put them in there. My bread recipe that isn’t a recipe at all, my modified version of my mother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe, and of course the pastry recipe that I look up every time I make a pie because for a second I think “there is no way we need that much butter, that can’t be right” (it is right, we do need that much butter).

The seasons have been changing. I have been working a lot, and trying to find time to do the household things I love. I haven’t started putting the recipes in the binder yet.

On October 31st, my family celebrated both Samhain and Halloween. We took time to recognize and honor our ancestors. The toddler really wanted to honor a dead rat and mouse he saw in the alley by our house the week before. So the spouse and I wrote down names on post-its, and the kid put a scribble on one to represent each fallen rodent. Then, a little jarringly, we got our costumes.


I also started the process of putting our garden to bed, which has turned out to be a bigger job than I expected, even with such a small garden. I’m hoping that next year I’ll be better prepared, but who knows?

Yesterday was American Thanksgiving, and I could have really used the recipe book. Thanksgiving is a holiday that I feel complicated about, because while it is cozy to share food with family, there’s nothing cozy about genocide. I’ve been having a bit of a rough time lately, and I’m also a stress baker. So I made three pies, including a savory roasted vegetable pie, classic pumpkin pie, and dutch apple.


You really do need all that butter.



I failed to photograph any of the finished pies, because I guess that isn’t the interesting part for me? But they were both pretty and tasty. If you are curious, here is the recipe that I look up every time I make a damn pie, and then feel embarrassed because it’s so simple I don’t really need it. But I will never ever measure the salt or the sugar, and you cannot make me.

Regarding thankfulness and national holidays, here is what I had to say yesterday:

Thanksgiving was invented by Abraham Lincoln, at least as the National Holiday we know today. The Civil War had just ended. Some people didn’t want it to be over. The country was divided, and he wanted to do something that would inspire unity.
So he told a story, a story full of symbolism. He told a story about uptight Puritans and wild Natives setting aside their differences to share a meal. In this story, here were two groups of people, people so different on every level, able to break bread together. The story was also racist. You are supposed to identify with the Puritans in the story, and pat yourself on the back for how accepting you are of those who are less than you. It was also a story to inspire patriotism… By harkening back to the beginning of the country, and surrounding it in myths about sharing, it reinforces the idea that the United States is right and good.
The Puritans had many feasts of thanksgiving. The type of protestantism that they practiced involved a lot of communal celebration, and also communal suffering. If they did something that they were ashamed of, they fasted together. If they did something they thought was pleasing to their god, they feasted and gave thanks.
One such feast, one of the larger ones that is remembered by history, occurred after the Pequot Massacre. There is no nice way to tell what happened. The Puritans were at war with the Pequot. They hated the Pequot because the Pequot resisted them, they fought back, they tried to keep what was theirs. The Puritans believed that they had a right to steal land that was not theirs, because they believed that their god thought that anyone who wasn’t using the land exactly as they would use it wasn’t really using it at all. So there were a series of skirmishes.
And then, the massacre. They surrounded a Pequot village and burned it to the ground. They burned everyone, and yes, that includes women and children. The goal was genocide. The goal was to destroy them once and for all. Anyone who escaped the fire was shot.
The Puritans thought this was pleasing to their god. They celebrated the great victory. They threw themselves a feast.
We live on stolen and occupied land. We have the bounty we have not because we are good or deserving, but because our ancestors (for those of us who are white) stole and murdered and destroyed. I do not really believe in the idea of sin, and especially not original sin. But if there is a sin that is passed down in our blood, it is this one.
And as the United States continues to steal native lands, and continues to ask people to find “unity” with those who would see a return to more blatant forms of racism, it is clear that many people haven’t (or just don’t want to) learn from our mistakes. We still use native people as props in our stories. We steal their land and try to steal their cultures and pretend it’s all in good fun. We keep sugarcoating genocide, and we keep benefiting from it.
I’m thankful for what I have. But I’m also asking all of us, especially myself, to do better.

Today a friend brought us an artificial tree to put in our living room, and we put it up right away even though the fall decorations are still up. Now we are all set to make a valiant attempt at resisting capitalism in the coming season, slowly start decorating for Yule, and trying as best we can to prepare our home (and ourselves) for another Michigan winter.

Pass the vitamin D.

Weaned (World Breastfeeding Week, Without Breastfeeding)

This is going to get emotional.

When I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to breastfeed. I also knew that lots of people struggle with breastfeeding, and that I had basically no idea how it would go for me ahead of time. I wanted to believe that since breastfeeding is *natural* (I have feelings about that word, y’all) it would just work itself out. I wanted to believe that my body would know what to do! But I didn’t know for sure, and I didn’t know how it would shake out with work, and I didn’t know if I would love it or hate it. But I was determined to do my best. I told myself that I would breastfeed for a year, and then we’d check in and see what to do next.


My body, the one that I wanted to believe would know what to do? Turned out it didn’t know how to give birth. I ended up being in and out of labor for a week, miserable and exhausted, and finally having a c-section. Then, we started trying to breastfeed. Latching was almost impossible, no matter how many times the lactation consultants showed me what to do, I couldn’t get my nipple into my child’s mouth without backup for almost two whole days. We kept trying. I was scared. I was scared the nurses would sneak him formula. I was scared he would actually need formula and that my body, the body that had failed at *natural* birth (there’s that word again) would also fail at breastfeeding. Then, somehow, me and the baby both started to figure it out. My milk came in, more milk than I had ever dreamed of. It turned out my body was really awesome at one thing: breastfeeding.

I loved it. I became obsessed. I wasn’t ready to try to process my feelings about the birth, so instead I just clung to the one part of motherhood that made me feel capable and whole, and that was feeding my kid. He was an enthusiastic eater, an I never once turned him down when he wanted a snack. Then, when he was three weeks or so, my gallbladder went completely bananas. In a hellish amount of pain (anyone who has had a gallbladder attack can tell you) I first headed to a nearby emergency room. After ten hours of medical neglect, milk streaming from my breasts like great waterfalls, I left that hospital against doctor’s orders to go feed my baby. When I had another attack, I headed to a different hospital, the same one I gave birth to him at, and this time I brought him with me. In excruciating pain, I nursed him in the waiting room. On a hospital bed in a tiny room in the ER, I took turns nursing him and letting my mother and wife bottle feed him, from my minuscule supply of pumped milk (remember, he was three of four weeks old). But when they took me upstairs to the surgical department, he was not allowed to go with me. And they put me on morphine, so my milk was no longer safe for him.

So for three days, I was in the hospital, with an alarm set on my phone for every three hours. When it went off, I would ring for a nurse and ask for a breast pump. They would bring it to me, and ask cheerfully if they should store my milk for me. And I would have to hold back my tears as I explained over and over again that no, every drop of my milk had to go down the drain. At his grandparents’ house, my kid finished my pumped supply, and then some donated milk as well, and I gave the ok for him to have formula. On the day he turned one month old, I had my gallbladder removed. The next day, I went home, and I had the ok to try to nurse him again. I was terrified it wouldn’t work. I was terrified he would not remember how, would prefer the bottle, that after all I would fail at this too and now I was going to have to figure out how to navigate the world of formula.

But by some miracle, it was easy. The only problem was that my oversupply had actually gotten worse, because I was so afraid of losing my supply, I had pumped more than I needed to.

We never had a problem with breastfeeding again. I lost my job, so I was home to feed him 24/7. At four months, he decided bottles were the actual devil, so we started occasionally giving him a sippy cup. At six months old, we started solid foods (via the baby lead weaning method) but if he decreased his nursing, I didn’t notice. On his first birthday we took him out for sushi and ice cream, and he ate all of it with enthusiasm, and then asked to nurse. The waitress wrote me a nice note about how I was doing the best thing for my baby.


I didn’t dream of weaning him at one year. By that point, I was firmly in the “I’ll nurse him until he’s five, I don’t care” camp. He loved nursing, and I loved doing it. It helped me to feel useful, it helped me to feel connected to him, and it gave me much needed down time with an increasingly active toddler. He usually wanted to nurse more than I wanted to, and sometimes I complained about the frequency, but on the whole the pros outweighed the cons for me.

Then, on New Year’s Eve, when he was 19 months old, it suddenly stopped.

I still struggle to write about it. The details are that the whole family got the flu, and then he got his very first ear infection (which I also got). It hurt him to nurse, so he stopped doing it. Then he became terrified of my breasts and didn’t even want to see them. Everyone, from two lactation consultants to the nurses at the children’s hospital, told me the same thing. Most likely if he had been an enthusiastic nurser before, it was just a nursing strike, and he would come back to it as soon as he felt better. However, they all added, some children do self-wean at this age, and it’s perfectly safe and normal, and I should be ready for either outcome.

I was not ready for either outcome.

He never breastfed again.

When you wean a child, there is a huge hormonal shift that happens for the nursing parent. Typically, if you were intentionally weaning, you would try to do it slowly. But my child went from trying to nurse constantly on Friday (because he wasn’t feeling well) to not nursing at all on Saturday (because he couldn’t). My body was in shock. My hormones were out of wack. I was thrown headlong into a depression that was every bit as bad as postpartum depression, only now I had a toddler to take care of. The only positive to the experience was that it finally forced me into therapy. Slowly, my milk dried up. Slowly, the idea that he would never nurse again became normal.

I am not supposed to be sad about this. I am told over and over again that “at least you made it to 19 months, most people don’t do half that!” as though it were a contest. I am told that if he weaned then, he was ready, even though I know he weaned in sadness and anger and fear. I am told it is not about me. I am not supposed to be sad about a child weaning at 19 months, but I’m especially not supposed to be sad about it now, seven months later. It’s fine, he’s happy and healthy, we still cuddle and play and talk, he’s an amazing kid and I’m lucky to have him. Except I am sad about it. I am sad about it every single day.


I am sad about it when I see my friends breastfeed their children. I am sad about it when they notice the look in my eye and apologize to me for feeding their babies in front of me. I am sad about it when he wakes up in the night crying and I feel helpless. And I am sad about it when he sees me change my shirt, and confidently says “oh! mama MILK!” because he still remembers. I cannot turn off this sadness.


It’s World Breastfeeding Week again, and I got invited to a march for breastfeeding awareness. Reading the invite I thought “oh, I am aware of breastfeeding.” I cycled through the familiar heartache, the pain that it ended the wrong way, followed by the self loathing and fear that I am somehow selfish for feeling this feeling. The invite specified that the event is for all, not just those who are currently breastfeeding. But I know I cannot go. I can’t handle being around that much awareness right now.

I was extremely luck that I got to breastfeed my kid for as long as I did. And it’s over. And I’m still sad about that, and goddamnit, I get to feel that.

So this is for all the parents who wanted to nurse but couldn’t. This is for all the parents who had to stop sooner than they wanted to. This is for all the parents who had to stop too soon. For everyone who had to switch to formula because of work, or supply, or sleep, or whatever… for everyone who feels messed up and messy about feeding babies… I see you.

If you are all for breastfeeding awareness, and your life is currently filled with breastfeeding images, and you aren’t breastfeeding anymore, I’m with you. If your heart is breaking wide open all over again, I’m with you. If you too are sitting at your computer, crying about the fucking concept of breastfeeding, and you think no one would ever understand this pain… I’m with you.

Maybe it’s true that we still need more breastfeeding awareness on a larger scale. But the rest of you will have to forgive those of us who are desperately trying to be a little less aware of it right now.

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Tiny Giant Happy Things, May Day

Yesterday was May Day, and it rained. May Day, as both the pagan holiday (also known as Beltaine) celebrating fertility and spring and International Workers’ Day, is pretty big deal around these parts. As a queer anarcho-socialist pagan household (to put the most accurate labels on us as possible) we cannot escape the weight or the joy of the first day of May. May Day is the height of spring, literally the very center of the season, and it throbs with potential and hope. And it is also filled with history, hung in the solemnness of those who died to make the world just a little bit safer and kinder and fairer.

Lots of years we have participated in an annual May Day bike ride in our city. Many of those years it was my first bike ride of the season, because I’m not a very dedicated cyclist and almost never ride in the winter. I remember the familiar burn in my legs, their confusion at being asked to do something they had almost forgotten about. One year a girl who had apparently just moved to our city found our gaggle of weirdos riding and just tagged along. She said “I was just singing old union songs to myself and thought I wouldn’t have anyone to celebrate with.”

The year the spouse and I fell in love, we battered and fried dandelion blossoms. Then we walked around our old neighborhood delivering them to friends and neighbors.

Oh, and I usually shave my head.

I rarely write about May Day, it’s such a busy, high energy, time of the year. I feel like I don’t have time to catch my breath and reflect. I feel like my head is spinning and then the holiday has passed and its not really relevent anymore. But today is only the second day of May, and my baby is outside playing with his Ma, and all the dishes from last night’s massive May Day meal are still in the sink. Today I can spare a moment to think about the wheel of the year and the march of time and the slow slow crawl of progress. Because if ever there was a day to challenge the nuclear family, the absurdity of the idea that we could live separate lives cut off from one and other in our separate and private homes, the stupidity of the notion that we could own our children, that day is May Day.

This May Day, like all May Days, I had more things I wanted to do than actually happened. We chose to stay on our block, which felt right, it felt like celebrating with our own community. These are the people we share with, the people who watch each other’s kids in a pinch, who will loan each other a cup of flour or help plant a garden or help you bring in a heavy box because you were stupid enough to think you could buy that ikea bookshelf and move it all by yourself (ahem). These are the people I am fighting isolation with right now.

So we made magic wands for the kids, and some neighbors had a May Pole in their yard, and we somehow managed to pull off a big dinner that included both fried dandelions and violet lemonade. I shaved off most of my hair. I baked a cake my favorite way, which is without a recipe or a measuring cup. Oh, and I built a bookshelf, because I just couldn’t stand hating my living room anymore. And all of our books were in piles on the floor since I impulsively decided to take the old (hated) bookshelf out to the back yard for a garden bed last week. The rain let up for enough of the day, and in the evening there was a small neighborhood bonfire.


In three weeks the baby turns two years old.

So today I am sitting in a bright room, with the sunlight pushing through the clouds, thinking about the spring and the coming summer and the fallen heroes. There is a lot of hope in May Day, even the tragic kind of hope is still hope. Our clover seeds came in the mail, and the garden looks happy from all the rain, and I feel (for once) like maybe I’m doing my best and it’s good enough.

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Resistance and Reality

In just a few short days, the country which I call home will be swearing in a president who ran on a platform of open racism, xenophobia, and fascist ideas… and won by leveraging the fear, greed, racism, and sexism of citizens who lean conservative, with the aid of a a foreign power. It’s a terrifying time to be alive for many of us, but especially those of us who are already marginalized in many ways. I and my family are far from the most affected by the current political climate, but as a poor queer family we certainly are affected by it.

For one thing, it now is extremely obvious that any hope that the ACA would remain was folly, and my wife and I will surely be losing our insurance (look for my upcoming piece on Romper about that). To add insult to injury, our plans to use our insurance to get some long term needs taken care of while we still can has pretty much been foiled by constant illness. Ditto my plans to put a ton of my energy into protesting and other forms of resistance. This week, we need all the strength that we can, and we’re starting three steps behind.

No matter how you slice it, our lives are about to get a whole lot harder financially.

And considering how much power is being given to people with angry and fearful anti-LGBTQIA views, we don’t know what other ways our lives are about to get harder. But we’re extremely nervous, to say the least.

To that end, we are trying our best to complete our second parent adoption process as quickly as possible. It’s one thing we can do to legally protect ourselves as a family a tiny bit, and it’s something we wouldn’t have access to in the event that they managed to remove our marriage rights (which seems unlikely right now, but a lot of things that seemed very unlikely are happening, so we’re not making any assumptions). But of course, it’s expensive. And we’re a poor working class family trying to navigate a capitalist society. All of which is to say, there’s a fundraiser.

You can donate here. I hate to ask for the help, but we’re out of options, and our child needs this. Ultimately, his rights are a hell of a lot more important to me than my pride. And what is there to be gained from being too proud to ask for help anyways? Nothing. I want to believe in a world and a future where we help each other out, and support each other as a community. Crowdfunding is a deeply flawed way to get closer to that right now, but at the moment, it’s what we’ve got. If you’re a regular reader, please consider giving. Even the smallest amount matters. Here’s that link again.

I also have a Patreon now, if you’d rather contribute in a more general way. I’m still figuring out all the nuts and bolts, and working on how to handle the tiers and rewards, but one big thing I’d like to do with the Patreon is support this blog right here. So if you like what you’re reading here, and you want it to keep coming, consider supporting me on Patreon if you can. Expect updates in that regard very soon!

I am writing this on Martin Luther King Jr Day. I want to believe that thing about the arc of history bending towards justice. I want to believe that the people who are pushing so hard against justice are making their last stand, that this is our one step back before two more steps forward.  I want to believe in hope and beauty and resistance and resilience. But I’m also really really scared. And I need to be honest about that.

I’m not well enough to be at a march today, and I’m too behind on bills to take any time off work. But I’m going to resist oppression and fascism however I can. We’re all going to resist however we can. Right? Right.

So This Is The New Year…

When I was fourteen years old, I wanted, for the first time, to make a very big deal out of New Year’s Eve. It was 1999, and for months people had wondered if the world would end, if the computers would panic, if leaping over that imaginary line between 1999 and 2000 would somehow change everything. It seemed like it had to, it was a new millennium, not just a new year. I wasn’t expecting the apocalypse, but I certainly wanted it to be, well, something. I had done the math as a child, and had for years looked forward to this most exciting New Year’s Eve, because when 2000 came around, I would be a teenager and everything would be fun and fabulous. At ten, I had sat in my bedroom and pictured what it would be like when, in four years, my cool teenage self headed off to a totally wild New Year’s Eve party. I didn’t realize that what I was picturing in my head was essentially a Barbie commercial.

What really happened of course is that my best friend came over to spend the night, and I insisted that we watch the countdown on MTV instead of ABC (we’re teenagers now!). It was, to put it mildly, really boring. A few hours before the clock struck midnight, we all collectively remembered that time zones are a thing that exists. And as the the calendar switched over in other places and nothing imploded, we slowly marched towards anticlimax. At midnight, I tried very hard to get excited. By 12:30 I was a grumpy fourteen year old, who was angry that nothing was going according to plan. Nothing was different, so we went to bed.


I’ve been avoiding writing about the current political climate on this blog. It isn’t that I don’t think it’s important, I think it’s very important. It’s just that I didn’t want this space to become yet another place where that man’s name appears a thousand times. I didn’t want to get swept away in the news cycle. Can you believe he said this? Can you believe he did that?

But the reality is, of course, that on November 8th, 2016, Donald Trump won the presidential election. And the personal is political, and the political is personal, and this spells very bad news for American Democracy in general, and my little family in specific. The reality is that we are totally fucking screwed. And since the election, I have lived with a shadow of fear constantly hanging over me. And also since the election, I’ve been more or less constantly sick. I don’t believe that these things are coincidental.


In December, as the celebrity death toll rose and rose, as things felt more and more hopeless, as it became clear that the Democratic Party would not attempt to save us, and the electoral college wouldn’t save us, and no one would save us…. folks began to personify 2016. In an attempt to cling to some tiny thread of hope for the future, every bad thing that happened was 2016’s fault.

“2016 strikes again!”

Meanwhile, many of us lived with an increasing sense of fear and foreboding. Could the new year possibly bring us anything better? It seemed likely to bring problems that were even worse.


After the year 2000 was such a bust, I lost interest in the concept of the new year all together, really. It never seemed like as big of a change as anyone wanted it to be, we all woke up on January first the same people with the same problems we had had on December thirty-first. I was done with my formal schooling by the age of 20, but I lived in college towns, and with my birthday taking place in August, the bigger “new year” change seemed to happen in late summer and early fall.

But then I fell in love with the person who would become my wifespouse. She was born at midnight, the first baby of her birth year. I love birthdays, my own and everyone else’s, so I started celebrating with her, and it started to really matter to me.

Going to a party is hard when you have a one year old, but we get out so rarely, I planned ahead to make sure it would work. We picked an event that seemed to be brimming with hope, and fun, and excitement. I was excited to celebrate the love of my life, and try to pick up a little bit of her relentless optimism in the face of oppression and fear.

Then the entire family got sick.


At 8pm on December 31st, instead of getting ready to go out dancing, we were coming home from the children’s ER, with an exhausted toddler who had his very first ear infection. He was so congested that he couldn’t breastfeed, which meant that he was pissed off and my boobs hurt. Nowhere was opened to fill his prescription, and eventually we tried to put him to bed. At midnight, instead of kissing on the dance floor, I was half asleep on our couch (where I could prop up my own congested head) while my incredible partner tried to soothe a screaming baby who just got angrier when I tried to comfort him.

For the first time I can remember, the new year feels new. Everything feels different, and it isn’t an exciting hope filled kind of different. It’s more like falling into cold water. Ten days later, I’m still reeling from it. We are still trying to figure out when we’re going to get to really celebrate my wife’s birthday. The baby can breath through his nose now, but we’re all still so stuffed up, and he’s still terrified to nurse. It may be that he never will again.

And in the midst of all of our illnesses (three cases of the flu, two ear infections, and a sinus infection!) we learn that despite what so many said to comfort us, we are almost certainly going to be losing our insurance very soon. When the Affordable Care Act is repealed, my wife and I will be left without coverage, without any kind of security in terms of health.

As a gay mother who gets sick several times a year, suffers from PTSD, and needs dental work, it’s not a particularly hopeful time. As a defensive pessimist, it’s difficult to find any silver lining in this at all. As a nursing parent, it’s traumatic to deal with sudden physical and hormonal changes on top of everything else. And as a freelancer, my bank account has taken a huge hit from my being this ill. So this is the new year, and what the fuck are we going to do?

Sorry this isn’t more uplifting.

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Going Out, Staying In

On Monday morning, when I am bleary eyed and exhausted, and I check facebook way before I’ve had my coffee, I see the notification.

You have 17 events this week with Chet Clover and 53 other friends.


This isn’t exceptional. I’m not particularly popular, we just happen to be a part of a community that’s always doing things. There’s a show, a fundraiser, a potluck, a party, an art opening, a community meeting… it’s endless. And almost all of them are scheduled for approximately our baby’s bedtime. So just like every week, I laugh. Sometimes, I genuinely find it funny (ha ha I’m not going to any of these ha ha!) and sometimes it’s the laughing you do to keep from crying.

This week, it’s the second one.

This week, I miss going to things and seeing people.


We tend to talk about American parents in this particular way. Parenting takes over your whole life, parenting is boring, parenting is all soccer games and no bar trips and rock shows. Especially for young white middle class Americans, there’s an assumption that life before parenting means going out and having fun, and life after parenting means staying in and being painfully boring. And we see this as a lifestyle issue. Parents would rather talk about dirty diapers than have a good time, what the hell is wrong with them?

I certainly wasn’t immune to this way of thinking.

Before having a child, my wife and I talked about the things we liked about our life. We talked about what having a kid would add to it, and what having a kid just might take away. We agreed that while we were committed to parenting, we were also committed to self-care, to continuing to be ourselves, and to not dropping out of our community. We’d find a way to make it work. Whatever was going to happen, we assured ourselves that we wouldn’t end up like those parents. You know who those parents are! You used to see them all the time, they used to be so involved, then they went and had kids and now it’s like they don’t even care about you. I mean what is their problem?

Their problem might be capitalism.


As I get older, I notice more and more that so much of the “lifestyle differences” that we pretend are about preference or ideals are really about class and money. Almost a decade ago now, I dated a young man who came from an affluent background. Whereas I went to high school in an area where most people had more money than my family, he went to high school in an area where most people had less money than his family. He was, apparently, picked on and mocked for being “the rich kid.”

He firmly believed that being mocked for being “the rich kid” was just as bad as being mocked for being “the poor kid.” As though being rich and being poor were equal things, just different, as though the very concept of wealth and poverty wasn’t based on inequality in the first place. When I tried to explain that even if rich kids and poor kids experienced the same exact hatred from “middle class” peers… rich kids still get to go home to a life of privilege and comfort… he dug his heals in. In retrospect, I should have probably broken up with him then.

It’s comfortable to assume that many differences from person to person, from family to family, are just personal choices. The thing is, that assumptions rests on the idea that everyone has the same choices. And we know that they don’t. We know that, despite what we are told, not everyone has the opportunity to go to college. Not everyone can buy a new couch if they want to. Not everyone can run a marathon. Not everyone can pack up and move. We are divided by circumstances and privileges, not only class but raise, gender, orientation, ability, location, etc. Some things we get to pick. Other things are chosen for us.

Before I had a kid, I used to assume that when parents stayed home all the damn time, it was because they had lost interest in everything else. I assumed it was a lack of effort. When parent friends said “finding a babysitter is so hard” I thought, “well, sure, that’s why you have to try hard and plan ahead!”

I was an asshole and an idiot.

Finding a babysitter is hard even if you can afford one. But for many of us, we can’t. For some of us, it’s basically impossible.

Continuing to “have a life” with a baby or small child requires resources. It requires time and energy and money, things than many parents of young kiddos are seriously lacking. It stops being a matter of lifestyle and preferences and starts being a matter of survival. My wife and I both work. I work from home, sometimes late into the night to get enough done to keep us on top of our bills. Freelancing allows me to work and avoid the cost of childcare, which allowed us to move into a house that we don’t hate, which is great! But it also means that for me, time is money in a very direct way. And I have to prioritize money, because we live in a capitalist society and money is what we use to pay for things like food, or heat. Sometimes, when I say “I don’t have time to hang out” it’s really not that I’m being a boring parent-type who’d rather stay home folding those adorable little baby pants. Sometimes, it’s that taking time to spend with friends, any time, feels like taking food out of my child’s mouth. It feels that way because it kind of is.

These are uncomfortable things to think about.

And most of the time I don’t complain (well, I complain to my wifespouse, but I don’t complain like this). Most of the time I shrug and remind myself that I chose this life. I chose to become a parent, I chose to become a parent knowing I was broke, knowing it would be difficult, knowing it would mean sacrifices.

But this week? This week it is too much. I’m sick and tired of staying in each and every time something is going on, of missing literally everything, and of wondering what people think about me for that. I’m sick of being congratulated when I do make it out, like it’s some kind of personal accomplishment when really I just happened to get lucky.

And this part is uncomfortable.

But I’m sick of people telling me how wonderful they think my family is, how brave they think I am for having a child, how great a mother they think I am, and never offering any help. Obviously, some people have and do offer help and we are immensely grateful. This isn’t about that. This is about the number of childfree people who say they support parents and families, but when it comes to engaging with that in their own communities, they act like libertarians. This is not articulate. I am not articulating this well, and I am not articulating it well because I am hurting.

What I know is that, before I had a kid, I saw friends with kids begging for babysitters on social media. And sometimes I responded and other times I didn’t. And lots of times I felt like I was too busy, too busy to take on anything else, busy the same way everyone was busy.

But your parent friends? We aren’t busy the way “everyone” is busy. We aren’t busy because of the glorification of busy in our society. We are busy in a totally unique, totally bone crushing way. We are busy in a way that you cannot even imagine, or at least that I could not imagine before I did it. And we only have one child. We have neighbors with five children. That is so many children.

And if you believe that families shouldn’t live in nuclear isolation. And you believe that capitalism is crap. And you believe that we should be sharing the load to make the world more like the one you’d like to see…. then you need to stop excluding families with kids from that equation.


There were three events I wanted to go to this week. I begged for babysitters on social media. No one responded. I downgraded it to just one event, I’d like to go to this one thing for once in my life, would someone please just watch netflix in my livingroom while my child sleeps for three hours?

“I sure hope you find somebody!”

I guess I’ll see you all in eighteen years.