Self Care Or, These Go To Eleven

Self care lists - especially self care lists for moms - are basically the same rehashed bullshit all over again:

Go For A Walk!
Call A Friend!
Take A Shower!
Meditate!

Not being a garbage monster, I shower every day. That’s been non-negotiable since I brought Will home from the hospital. I will skip meals, I will go without sleep but you can have my scalding hot shower when you pry it out of my withered little hands.

Indiana is part German Shepherd and needs to be walked every day. I wish we had land where he could just run and roam but we don’t. We do, however, have a long walking path and a neighborhood filled with mangoes which he just devours every spring, so I don’t feel too bad for the guy.

I’ve got about six text chains going on at any given time, the last of which was a conversation with my best friend about how I’d rather use Elderberry syrup for a gin cocktail as opposed to a cold remedy.

As for meditation - falling into a meditative trance when your kid watches Blippi Garbage Truck for the third time in a row totally counts…right?

I did all of these things last week and yet, it was still rough.

For two days in a row, I got up at 1:30am because Will was fussy or the dogs needed to go out to pee/bark like idiots at feral cats. I tossed and turned, couldn’t fall back asleep, doom-scrolled Twitter and basically operated in Safe Mode during the day.

By the end of the week, I was running on fumes and needed….something. But I didn’t know what that something was.

Will has started doing this thing where he calls me “Jaime.”

He knows it’s cheeky and he’s doing it to be mischievous and hear me respond, “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to but my name is Mommy, sir,” so he can cackle like a teeny little goblin.

But, weirdly enough - kid has a point.

Before I was Mommy, I was Jaime - a fully actualized human being - and in order to take care of myself, maybe I should focus less on maternal self care and more on my self care.

So, on the way to dinner - I packed Will up with John and I drove by myself, playing Sabotage by The Beastie Boys and Led Zeppelin’s How The West Was Won album at bone-rattling volumes.

Howling, “Ahhhhh! I can’t stand it/I know you planned it….” at the top of your lungs while sitting at a red light is basically primal scream therapy, right?

Just the sound and fury of John Bonham smashing his way through to the earth’s core on Heartbreaker and Black Dog or Mike D pounding the skins like a herd of mastodon thundering through a valley of bones and leaving nothing more than dust in his wake.

That is how I, as a mom, keep it on and on.

I don’t need a drink (but I’ll take one if you’re offering), I don’t need to align my chakras with a million chatarangas (but I’ll totally go to yoga with you) and I don’t need to inhale a bunch of tacos from Lupita’s (no, I actually totally need to do this) BUT I do need to remember that the one thing that always bring me back to the center of myself is guitars, drums and the ancient wisdom of Detroit punk band MC5 - kick out the jams, motherfucker indeed.

(Rage Against The Machine does a truly excellent cover of this song. You should check it out).