5 years

Strong Jawline and I were running along the bay yesterday morning, just leaping like gazelles with no stiffness, pain, perimenopause, or plantar fasciitis.

No, we weren’t. That was Strong Jawline, huddled under a blanket on the couch for three days after throwing his back out gardening, and that was me, buying three bottles of rosé in one week because it’s SUMMER BITCHES.

It's January in San Francisco. This used to mean a lot of drizzle, but these days it means dazzling sunshine or torrential rain. A few days ago I parked outside our house and asked SJ to open the front door so I could run from my car (through torrential rain, not dazzling sunshine). This is not normal (torrential rain is not normal, obnoxious requests are de rigueur).

I’m upstairs with Gargantubaby — who, now age 6, needs a new nickname (perhaps Gargantufirstgrader) — setting him up to do art. It’s warm the way it always is up here, so I grab one of his bigger books to prop the door open.

Mommy, he says, you can’t do that. You didn’t get my permission.

You’re right, I say, surprised. May I have your permission to use one of your books?

No.

Um. What should I use to prop open the door?

He shrugs. You need to figure that out, he says.

I've been thinking about how, in the face of some intense challenges these past five years WHAM WHAM WHAM, I have managed to keep my wits about me.

Is it because I'm a superior human being? Is it because I have anything recognizable as a good habit? Is it because I take a five-minute walk every half hour to stave off death, the latest fear fad suggested by "research"? (Do I keep my wits about me?)

None of the above!

So, I've been thinking about why and how I'm still in relatively good shape mentally and physically (blood pressure: 116/77!) – in addition to all the privileges that come with my race, socioeconomic status, access to education, etcetera etcetera, which are, let’s be real, the leading factors.

Gargantubaby: Mommy, let’s play doctor. (Looks serious.) What is your problem today?

Jenny: I have a son who won’t get out of bed.

GB: (Whispers) Pause. Mommy, doctor is for when something’s broken or you’re sick.

Jenny: Oh, OK, I’ll do it right.

GB: (Looks seriously at me again)

Jenny: I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m tired all the time.

GB: I think we should squeeze your boob. (Squeezes my boob)

Jenny: Oh, thank you, I have so much energy now!

I cuddle him and kiss all the parts of his face as I name them so he won’t notice I’m scooping him up and taking him to the kitchen for breakfast.

It's the end of December in San Francisco, which means I can't comfortably wear flip-flops and occasionally there are some leaves on the sidewalk. We passed that annual milestone, the turning-on of the heater, which makes a pleasant boom below us in the garage before hot air seeps upward through three of the four wall vents (the office will always, always be cold). In the morning I prop Gargantubaby's clothes on the living room vent before crawling into bed with him and stripping him naked before he's fully awake so he won't scream about being shoved into cold jeans. It's on mornings like these, when he balls his fists and yells "MOMMY!!!!!" with a look of rage and helplessness that I recognize so well that I think, Thank god I only have one.

It’s the end of summer in San Francisco. I would report on the weather, but who fucking knows what the weather is anymore. My baby has been 5 years old for one month. He started kindergarten two weeks ago. He feels “nervous” all day at his new school, a massive K-8 public school in the heart of the Mission, which has a graffiti-covered parklet where unhoused residents sleep in the fetal position, and there’s a human turd in one of the planters (I checked for it this morning — still there).