Starting up. February’s ending game.

I know I’ve been off my game, I’ve felt it. I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been full of thoughts about how I’ve not been writing and that, honestly, can just bite it. Its not enough, its not.

Its like the taxes that are sitting next to me on the desk. The actual job would take ten minutes. So, why are they sitting next to me on the desk and not winging their way to their destiny? Hmm.

So, I’m going to set myself the task of writing again, for real, again. I’m not holding myself to every day, but 5/7 would be pretty awesome. March it is. The anniversary of our discontent.

Sigh. all the ‘last times’ that we didn’t know about. a year ago. I predict not much writing about it really, i am not really producing a time-capsule for the sake of history, after all.

I find that the writing connects me to my deeper self, and i’m bolstered by the sharing of it. The imagination that tells me there are a small multitude cheering me on, and maybe doing their own thinking of their deeper selves.

I want to go back to that tether ball pole, idly waiting for players. I need the tether, in this chill spring. A whole tumult of change is arriving, again, and I do like the smell of the dirt in this season. (though the mud? questionable)

End of February. Beginning of March. What have we here?

What have we?

Love love,


black and white chickadee
Photo by cmonphotography on

Fucksake and fingers crossed, February.

I’m disconnected from things right now.

Seeing the end of winter coming, (fingers crossed)

The possibility that I will actually have all three in school tomorrow. (fingers crossed)

I’m hopeful about a couple of things, and castigating myself for the hope. (for fucksake.)

I’m signing up for more classes that will teach me more things. I’m looking forward to that. (fingers crossed)

Today I have to take a test to prove what I know about supportive coaching. (fingers crossed)

Someone far north of me posted pics of daffodil greens poking through the dirt. (fingers crossed and oh my god, i need to go check my yard!)

Taxes. (fucksake)

Covid continues despite my hopes for spring. (fucksake and fingers crossed, both)

I just hit 25K words on a project that has to be over 30 in four days. (fucksake and fingers crossed, again.)

I have just eaten two entire boxes of candy. Now I need a much larger writing break. (FOR FUCKSAKE KATE!)

love love.

fingers crossed,



Kid pressure. February, you ass.

Mother Guilt

My kids started giving me the full-court press last night at dinner.

‘Get a real job.’ (*whose voice is that? really, i mean it. Who has told them that I don’t have a real job? I write and I raise them. What is not real? )

‘I think you’d be fine in a classroom mom. You’re not that deaf.’ (oh but honey, i am though.)

“I’ve never even seen you in ‘business casual’ mom.” (since when is this a complaint a regular child voices?)

This was dinner. In order to defend myself, I end up pledging all my energy to the ‘i really am deaf, guys’ team. and I am not deaf, let me be clear. But I AM profoundly hearing impaired. Being in a classroom full of joybombs isn’t something I think I could do well with my hearing. Not being in charge of the learning of the loves, or the distinguishing of one voice from the multitudes, and I am a very ardent believer that a good classroom is a noisy one, 78% of the time.

Spending any minutes at all thinking about how much hearing loss I have sucks. It does. I do not like it, at all. Feeling guilty or bad around my children because I can’t meet their expectations is killer. I feel so much guilt, like I have to ‘prove’ something to them, and the idea that I am not good enough, right now? Holy simolians….

It is true that I don’t earn a lot of money doing what I do. I mean, this here blog earned me 17 cents last month, though. (i’m winking at you.) The gods of blogdom don’t pay me til I hit $100, so I think when I hit 74, I’ll be allll set.

But get this, I make money on writing. Legitimately. Every month. And you know what? That is not something to be discounted. It’s only getting better, kids.

But my god, the guilt. The ways in which I want to shape myself to fit into something for them? Ugh. I can feel my inner glow contorting itself to fit what they think I should be. Wanting to satisfy whatever it is they think is better than what i am right now.

And I know that I do this in a million ways every which way. In dating, fuggetaboutit. But also in ‘what will the teacher think?’, ‘what are the other mothers doing?’, ‘what will i tell my mom?’

And then there are the ways which no one but me will ever see. ‘will the waitress judge us because of the rice that fell on the ground?’ (boy, thats ages ago…fuck covid, again.) ‘does the bank teller judge my messy penmanship?’

Some of these are absolutely fucked up, guys. There is literally no reason that my brain should travel those paths. As far as my kids go, there is no choice. What comes out of their mouths is just what needs to be addressed, that’s all.

I know, its just tip of the iceberg thinking, there is so much in there. so much womanhood, so much conditioning. Mother guilt. Woman Guilt. GAH.

i know, i know.

and so on, and so forth.

love you,


*and yes, if its their dad’s voice wishing me to get a ‘real’ job so he could pay me less, i just point to the mandate of the court, and how i willfully and happily take less than that already, because of the ‘strain’ it causes him. roll right off me, devil! (i’m winking again, but in a snarky, vicious way…)

This is a woman who writes, and gets paid for it. Look.

Drop the Flinch, February.

I have a new office.

My back is turned to all of the kid action and there aren’t any plants or birds to stare at. The desk my laptop is on is empty still, empty of knicknacks and unnecessariness. Its definitely strange. The two pieces of artwork in front of me are fascinating me. They are darkly colorful and I dig it.

I have new guilt.

I can’t really hear the boys who are remote learning. I don’t see them start milling about when it is time for lunch. This is roughly my third day with this space. Today was my first day with kids in school and an actual routine and I forgot to make them lunch. I forgot to make them lunch. I’m pretty sure they just ate snack food all day.

Hmm. Am I a 70s mom?

I don’t think of myself as a helicopter parent at all. but clearly, it is not necessary for me to be in the middle of the action.

So is this guilt or am I feeling a loss of relevance? Or, have I done my job so fucking well that they function at a subsistence level without me just fine? Like, the wolves will not get them, ya dig?

I’m here, its almost dinner time and I’m still in here, typing. I got three times as much done today as I usually do. Its all the uninterrupted time, looking at the damn computer, that’s what it was. What will happen now that I know this trick?

When the boys were little I was in a shock-and-awe phase for quite a while. They were so damn risk-friendly, I was flinching all the time. After a while, I got over it, as a survival mechanism, an adaptation to have a healthier life. There is a point you have to look away, for your own health.

And that’s where I find myself again. Looking away, at least, more often. What will open up for me? What will open up for them?

I know, I know, Virginia Woolf. I know.

but yeah, that. here it is.

love love.


A February Doozy.

My nephew is here. I saw him last this summer, when we met at a rental house for a couple of days. My brother’s son. The cutest bean ever.

All I can hear right now is screaming from the other end of the house, and running feet. The house is old enough that if you run on the right spot, the whole thing shakes. We’ve been shook now several times.

When they all disappeared upstairs, I got some work done. I’ve shifted my ‘work space’ to move out of the kitchen, out of ‘being central”. I thought I would feel in danger, like military people when they sit with their backs to the door. That somehow I was neglecting, being willfully negligent of all the kid-action of the house.

Turns out, the bastards follow me.

So there’s that.

But. also. I was sitting here doing work and I realized I was expecting someone else. I was expecting some other adult to ‘come home’. Isn’t that insane? I have been on my own now for five years, except for that lovely interlude with LM. Who am I waiting for?

Why does the brain work like it does? How do you grow to trust it when its obviously overworked and delusional? A habit of thought from five years ago or even one year ago?

It was a doozy. A doozy to realize. I’m not sad or anything but if I’m suspicious of my own brain, then what?


a doozy.

love love,


Workspace, underway.