4 years

Never in my life have I actually prioritized my mental health. And I've been prioritizing it for four months now. As it turns out, watching a lot of TV and not doing shit is what prioritizing my mental health looks like. Importantly, I finally — finally — decided to put my kid in his own bed YES I KNOW HE'S ALMOST FIVE I WASN'T READY HE'S SO FUCKING CUTE WHEN HE GIGGLES IN HIS SLEEP. I stopped cooking, and I walk as much as possible in the mornings at Heron's Head Park. I keep my head down at work (mostly), and I don't start fights (mostly).

Saturday, February 19, 2022, was a perfect day.

GB and I woke up late. I made a new recipe, pumpkin pancakes, that were easy and turned out fantastic. In the cool morning air, we carried books and art supplies through the magical fairyland that has become our back yard, with the plum and apple trees blossoming pink and white, the crocosmia flaming orange, and their copious leaves fanning bright green higher than our heads. I drank my tea and we snuggled, barefoot, in our sleeping bags and read stories.

My friend Lindsey had texted me the night before to invite us to the beach, and lo and behold we had NO PLANS, so after finishing my tea I packed us a picnic lunch and a few beach toys, and GB and I set off for Ocean Beach to MEET FRIENDS IS THIS POST-PANDEMIC OR WHAT. GB and I parked near Judah and walked all the way to the Beach Chalet, then hung a left onto the sand.

I got some feedback this week. Basically, it went like this: You have communication issues and everyone says so.

HAVE WE MET YES I KNOW

I’m not a New Year’s resolution kind of person. This is because I have not been able to keep resolutions, and each subsequent failure compounds my sense that This Is Just The Way It Is and I Will Always Shock People With How Unprofessional I Can Be. These are some past resolutions:

• Stop talking.

• Lead with empathy.

• Be a better person.

• Go in with humble inquiry.

• Stop talking to my parents about financial issues.

I spent most of 2021 hawking my book, You Look Tired: An Excruciatingly Honest Guide to I Don’t Even Remember Right Now. Some cool shit happened:

1. I got paid $70,000.

2. Badass writers Jancee Dunn, Bunmi Laditan, and Meaghan O’Connell blurbed it.

3. Badass writer Beth Spotswood at the San Francisco Chronicle did a Q&A with me that ran in the Datebook section (the storied Sunday “Pink Pages”).

4. Some very cool radio stations and blogs had me on as a guest and interviewed me (thank you, every single one of you content creators and art lovers!!! Except the prime-time Republican with the sound effects who tried to get me to talk about how much “we” hate women who “lose all the baby weight”).

We met Kathy in the parking lot and wandered into the nursery, where, lo and behold, for the first time ever, I saw a crowd! It was happening! There was the live music, just on a break: A group of musicians wearing face paint and gold lamé chatted on the stage beneath a pavilion. A little girl with long brown hair held an orange chicken to her chest. I noticed that everyone seemed to be talking in groups and appeared to know each other. I also noticed that some of these groups turned to look at us and didn’t smile, but this happens often enough in the NIMBY Bay Area that it didn’t tip me off. Remember: BAY NATIVES TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE OYSTERS.

I’ve known for months that something has to give. In just over a week I’ll be 45, and if I don’t slow down, stop fighting every fight, stop working so much, stop eschewing leisure time and exercise I am doing to DIE. So I have become even more lax in responding to email, fallen off social media, and stopped promoting my book (well, not completely BUY MY BOOK FOR GOD’S SAKE I’LL HAVE A HEART ATTACK IF YOU DON’T). I also have been taking advantage of my new hours at my new job to take morning walks at Heron’s Head Park, where every day I can see seals, puppies, and an incredible variety of birds.

Speaking of jobs, I sent this letter to my former employer this morning: …

We’re in the car, driving across San Francisco. It’s Sunday afternoon.

Mommy? How did people ​m​ake this world? GB asks.

What do​ ​​you mean? I glance at him in his car seat over my shoulder.

The restaurants and stuff like that.

This is the conversation I've been preparing to have for four years. Maybe it’s not the conversation he’s asking for, but I see my opening. We’ve talked about skin color, racism, the police. He knows the names of some people: Malcolm. Frida. Maya. Langston. Martin. I’ve stocked our house with books about all kinds of people. But for the first time, my kid has asked a question.

GB, my son, my Gargantubaby, turned four years old on a sunny, mild afternoon a couple of Sundays ago. It's the second birthday he's had in captivity. The plan was to host a superspreader event at a park on Sunday, then put the family in the van on Monday and drive into the heart of a wildfire for a family vacation. California living!