Last night my husband went to Target after the kids were in bed. I say this because it's rare. Rare for one of us to leave the house without the other at night. Unless its a meeting or a specifically planned social outing we just don't generally go out. Its the age of the kids and the division of labor post-bed.
If hes late getting back, in my mind the Lifetime movie runs. The one where there's a freak accident. A heart attack. A gunman. I have to live my life alone, raising three kids. As I sorted through the laundry, bending and stooping to clear toys, I tried to figure out our finances. How long could I live here? Would I stay in this house, or another? When could i produce income? Who will I call when the police come to the door? Would be husbands last day be a good one?
As I swept up the popcorn from under the table, I had...not an epiphany...but a realization. An epiphany would have been illuminating and felt enlightening. What I felt was a bit darker. "Ive been a shitty wife". Not truly, but yes, Im not much fun. If you are in the market for a gay, carefree, bon vivant with hobbies and friends and a million cool apps running road races and wine drinking and cheerfully cuddling with you on the couch, you've picked the wrong woman.
I'm awful. An anxious bundle of articulated tics and ideas.Up in my head, out of my mind, I stress as to whether the towels are folded seams out (prettier when you open the cabinet), if the toys are sorted by genre, if the clothes are all clean at once. I can't function well unless everything is compartmentalized and because of it, I spend hours constantly sorting. it's endless. And really, never ending.
I like to think Im lightening up. Going to bed earlier, trying to read vs clean. Trying to connect vs manage. But it stays with me. Taunting me. Breathing down my neck. It is right now. The playroom is writhing in pain because toys are littering the floor. It's Awful.
So there I am, sweeping, organizing, folding, sorting, thinking, and the husband comes home.
phew.
Safe.
I think I need to stop and live differently but I don;t know how.
So I do what I do because in the absence of knowing what else to do, this still works. Well, it doesn't "work" but the result is generally that we have a blank slate to do what we need to do next because Ive already done the business of being organized.
This wasn't the post I started when I sat down.
The post I started was about how I posted pictures to facebook last night of my abysmal cake making then across posted about 5 pictures of cakes and desserts 3 of my friends made that I thought were inspired and gorgeous.
My one friend chirped that she wasn't as good as the other two. Which is stupid because she IS as good, she gets it done in a short amount of time, her stuff is creative and well executed and adorable. But I joked instead it's because she was swilling wine. As I typed the joke I thought "Too far" but then I thought of how at least once a week she makes a booze joke and I figured it would be well received. Yeh. It wasn't. She fired back something like "Enough with the derogatory remarks, I'm sick of them." And that was it.
So I sent her an apology, killed the post (not just the comment) and went to bed. Dreaming bad dreams about upsetting her. Only to find this morning that she is mad, feels I took a potshot at her, posted something for all to see, and in general "Went to far". Point taken. And Im sorry. I generally don't fuck up that way but I did.
And this morning my day is ruined. lll walk around feeling hot, nervous, fragile, upset, and distracted. Im short of breath. Feel weepy. Saddened. I already do.
So I walked upstairs and sat and typed this, ignoring all the other noises in my head that say 'Clean. Make breakfast. Whatever" I also feel a tiny seed of something else. A feeling that is different for me.
I feel like saying this. "Ive loved you for a long time. Long enough to stick around when you have had no time for me. Long enough to wait and see when the phone stopped ringing if it was because of me, or because you were busy. Ive never judged you, thought less of you, lied to you or about you. Ive waited for months jealously to reconnect with you when I see you surrounded by new friends, new activities, new projects. I've tried to talk less, talk differently, or simply not bug you - because Ive tried to guess internally which of my behaviors has turned you away from me hoping valiantly to change so you'll turn back to me. I miss my friend. I may have taken more then Ive given. I may be a narcissistic mess. I may be a lot of things but I'm not spiteful. Im sorry. Yes I am. Sorry I made a joke that wasn't a joke. But to be fair, let me say this which I haven't said. At around 5, or 7, or 10 at least 3 posts out of 10, you are talking about booze. Wine. Having a drink. Mommy time. Whatever. And I know you don't have a problem. But maybe you think people think you do. Because if someone posted that on my board, I'd laugh. Because I don't drink enough at any time to take it seriously. I made a joke that I thought lined up with YOUR jokes. It doesn't erase what I did, it doesn't mean you have to accept my apology. I said I'm sorry though and I mean it. Deeply.
The little seed of a feeling I have though is anger. I'm angry that you think I'd take a potshot at you. Did I suddenly change? Have I become someone snide? Snippy? Passive aggressive? Did I turn a corner and become the judge and jury of others lives? Anyone who has ever known me knows my fatal fucking flaw. Its driven me my whole life. "If somethings wrong, it must be my fault"
So heads up for myself. If my husband dies in a fiery car crash in the rain today, I will regret not living our current life better. I'll regret wasting time on this post, but most of all, I'll regret how deeply sad I am over something that may not be entirely my fault.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
From now on, you're only someone that I used to know...
Dear Bootsy,
Hi there. You don’t know me by name but we met this morning. I had just gotten out of my vintage Honda CRV and was making my way down a short path when you pulled up. I noticed you right away, as you walked towards me, with your straight legged jeans, your Jcrew top, nested under your puffy white North Face vest. Your Red Sox cap pulled low, your Hunter Wellies knee high. For all the world you needed a riding crop.
I saw you hustling your son, may be 3, in front of you with his Gap shirt, his miniature Sox hat, his Keene mocs and his tiny denims too. You were late. Not dramatically, in fact, just under 4 minutes. Late for the organic farming lecture and the wee walk around the farm. I saw you walking towards me as I stood on the path, buckling my sling at my hip. I was in an illfitting pair of leggings, not meant to be worn as pants, with a pink sleeveless tank top, not flattering to my heavier figure. Ive slept in this outfit, although I didn’t last night. Just before you came, I took off my “Past Season UnderArmor Waffle Hoodie in Charcoal” I think you would have liked it. I remember you so clearly, not because you were so pretty, but because as you cut between my and my three children on a path surrounded on both sides by more path, you looked at me, up and down, scornfully. And when I looked directly back at you and said “Hello” brightly and loudly, you walked by.
As I turned to swing my son up, I saw your retreating back. You looked great. Stylish, glossy, neither too thin nor heavy by any standard, even the harshest. I didn’t see you take your sons hand, but I did see you with him, and you made your way to the table. I was shortly behind you. My three not dressed as well. One shoe off, no sunblock, bare headed. My littlest in a dirty tshirt, the neckband stained with a bit of chocolate granola. My daughter made her way through the mommy bodies and found a seat at the picnic table, my sons stayed in my arms. Both did. At just under 30lbs each. 60pounds of tiny wriggly smelly yelly boys. One sought my keys, the other my sling, and for a minute as I cradled my sons head I had the fleeting thought that I remember this shape, from when he was lodged under my right rib. My ribcage still misshapen because of it. I kissed him. Another dad was watching. A gorgeous lumberjack of an organic hipster dad with his equally naturally stunning wife. I hoped they saw how much I loved him. Not for my own vanity but because someone somewhere should know how much. You were somewhere in front on me. Not angry, but not warm. Just taking up the tiny bit of space in the universe that you inhabit. At some point the brief lecture ended. Our guide suggested we walk, and as the last in the circle, I was the first to start up the hill. I knew from behind I was bisected in two, muffin top, arms jowly, two heads cresting above my shoulder, my daughter running ahead. I knew I looked bad, unattractive, unkempt. Not natural as in organic like the farm, just slatternly natural.
It was hot. The sun was shining and although I fretted about sunblock I was glad – glad I took off the hoodie, glad to be cool, glad my maryjane loafers had ventilation. It was hard, carrying 60 pounds across a rutted field at 9;10 am in the hot spring sun, trying to find a foothold through straw and weeds, keeping an eye of my daughter, keeping my pace, knowing that two dozen mothers were behind me. I slung my son up – over once, twice and back again, each time clearing my other sons head. Trying to entertain both and I trudged. Grateful I didn’t bring a stroller, wishing for a back carrier, happy to give them the experience, and thrilled beyond measure that even heavy, even carrying 60lbs, even in the hot hot sun, I made it there first. Not winded. You were about 9 people behind me. Later I was almost directly next to you. You ignored me. Not even a ghost smile or a nod. You may have seen my daughter, standing but for one next to the teacher. Peering into her hands, looking over the fence, not leaning. Absorbing the lessons. On chickens, on gullets, on beaks. Maybe you saw her enter the chicken ring, with over 60 chickens milling about. Walking slowly as directed and gently cradling the eggs during her turn. Or maybe you didn’t see me because you were fanning yourself. Hot. Looking at your cell, talking to your friend. You son was crying. Whining actually. He was hot. Thirsty. Something. Likely you had water for him although I left mine in the car. My daughter bareheaded run back and back again for more feed, then sitting on the ground in chicken shit to cuddle her tiny brother. Her brother who is frantic indoors yet insanely serene outside. My nature child who balances out in the wind.
As we walked away I heard someone, maybe you, wondering how much longer, where next, that it was hot. I felt it too. It was hot. My belly was sweating with my on riding close, my feet dusty. I walked behind everyone this time, to give my sweet boys some time to calm down. Somewhere my daughter ran ahead. I trusted she’d follow the teacher, I trusted that Id see her come back, I trusted she wouldn’t miss me. You would never have left your son but I did, striking out on the little path back to the car for water, for snacks. And about 10 minutes later there you all were. My daughter somewhere in the middle of you all, gazing ahead looking for me, and I looking for her. As she ran to me she chirped about the birds, the pigs, the sheep. I chirped about water, her feet, was she hungry. She chattered on, excited, bold, proud. I swept her up into the car, the boys screaming delightedly to see her. Five more minutes we spent, tailgating in the back, with spare clothes and a yardsale stroller jamming the space. With not enough snacks to satisfy but enough to share, then into the back of the car littered with books, a puppet, 4 pairs of shoes, everyone in various stages of yelling, of fighting, of chortling. As we drove out behind the dust flying off the tires of the legions of Honda Pilots and upscale SUVs, we in our 2001 beater were happy, dirty, windblown and hungry, the radio turned too loud to the Barenaked Ladies “Snacktime”.
I knew on some level Id have to pay the piper at home. 3 tubs, vacuum the car. I know that the bags would have to be unpacked and repacked. I knew that in just a few hours the boys would need more – a water table, a park playdate, fresh diced fruit some entertainment to pull us all though until late afternoon and cooler weather. I knew I had to feed my daughter. To look up camps, to call the contractor. I knew the my first world problems would still be at home, and that for all that a 9am farm tour seemed wonderful, 1 pm was going to hit hard.
I knew all those things and I knew that if you noticed me at all, you’d have remembered a fat woman that was a mess. What I'll remember is just how great a mother I am.
Im not sure where you were though.
I had forgotten about you.
Hi there. You don’t know me by name but we met this morning. I had just gotten out of my vintage Honda CRV and was making my way down a short path when you pulled up. I noticed you right away, as you walked towards me, with your straight legged jeans, your Jcrew top, nested under your puffy white North Face vest. Your Red Sox cap pulled low, your Hunter Wellies knee high. For all the world you needed a riding crop.
I saw you hustling your son, may be 3, in front of you with his Gap shirt, his miniature Sox hat, his Keene mocs and his tiny denims too. You were late. Not dramatically, in fact, just under 4 minutes. Late for the organic farming lecture and the wee walk around the farm. I saw you walking towards me as I stood on the path, buckling my sling at my hip. I was in an illfitting pair of leggings, not meant to be worn as pants, with a pink sleeveless tank top, not flattering to my heavier figure. Ive slept in this outfit, although I didn’t last night. Just before you came, I took off my “Past Season UnderArmor Waffle Hoodie in Charcoal” I think you would have liked it. I remember you so clearly, not because you were so pretty, but because as you cut between my and my three children on a path surrounded on both sides by more path, you looked at me, up and down, scornfully. And when I looked directly back at you and said “Hello” brightly and loudly, you walked by.
As I turned to swing my son up, I saw your retreating back. You looked great. Stylish, glossy, neither too thin nor heavy by any standard, even the harshest. I didn’t see you take your sons hand, but I did see you with him, and you made your way to the table. I was shortly behind you. My three not dressed as well. One shoe off, no sunblock, bare headed. My littlest in a dirty tshirt, the neckband stained with a bit of chocolate granola. My daughter made her way through the mommy bodies and found a seat at the picnic table, my sons stayed in my arms. Both did. At just under 30lbs each. 60pounds of tiny wriggly smelly yelly boys. One sought my keys, the other my sling, and for a minute as I cradled my sons head I had the fleeting thought that I remember this shape, from when he was lodged under my right rib. My ribcage still misshapen because of it. I kissed him. Another dad was watching. A gorgeous lumberjack of an organic hipster dad with his equally naturally stunning wife. I hoped they saw how much I loved him. Not for my own vanity but because someone somewhere should know how much. You were somewhere in front on me. Not angry, but not warm. Just taking up the tiny bit of space in the universe that you inhabit. At some point the brief lecture ended. Our guide suggested we walk, and as the last in the circle, I was the first to start up the hill. I knew from behind I was bisected in two, muffin top, arms jowly, two heads cresting above my shoulder, my daughter running ahead. I knew I looked bad, unattractive, unkempt. Not natural as in organic like the farm, just slatternly natural.
It was hot. The sun was shining and although I fretted about sunblock I was glad – glad I took off the hoodie, glad to be cool, glad my maryjane loafers had ventilation. It was hard, carrying 60 pounds across a rutted field at 9;10 am in the hot spring sun, trying to find a foothold through straw and weeds, keeping an eye of my daughter, keeping my pace, knowing that two dozen mothers were behind me. I slung my son up – over once, twice and back again, each time clearing my other sons head. Trying to entertain both and I trudged. Grateful I didn’t bring a stroller, wishing for a back carrier, happy to give them the experience, and thrilled beyond measure that even heavy, even carrying 60lbs, even in the hot hot sun, I made it there first. Not winded. You were about 9 people behind me. Later I was almost directly next to you. You ignored me. Not even a ghost smile or a nod. You may have seen my daughter, standing but for one next to the teacher. Peering into her hands, looking over the fence, not leaning. Absorbing the lessons. On chickens, on gullets, on beaks. Maybe you saw her enter the chicken ring, with over 60 chickens milling about. Walking slowly as directed and gently cradling the eggs during her turn. Or maybe you didn’t see me because you were fanning yourself. Hot. Looking at your cell, talking to your friend. You son was crying. Whining actually. He was hot. Thirsty. Something. Likely you had water for him although I left mine in the car. My daughter bareheaded run back and back again for more feed, then sitting on the ground in chicken shit to cuddle her tiny brother. Her brother who is frantic indoors yet insanely serene outside. My nature child who balances out in the wind.
As we walked away I heard someone, maybe you, wondering how much longer, where next, that it was hot. I felt it too. It was hot. My belly was sweating with my on riding close, my feet dusty. I walked behind everyone this time, to give my sweet boys some time to calm down. Somewhere my daughter ran ahead. I trusted she’d follow the teacher, I trusted that Id see her come back, I trusted she wouldn’t miss me. You would never have left your son but I did, striking out on the little path back to the car for water, for snacks. And about 10 minutes later there you all were. My daughter somewhere in the middle of you all, gazing ahead looking for me, and I looking for her. As she ran to me she chirped about the birds, the pigs, the sheep. I chirped about water, her feet, was she hungry. She chattered on, excited, bold, proud. I swept her up into the car, the boys screaming delightedly to see her. Five more minutes we spent, tailgating in the back, with spare clothes and a yardsale stroller jamming the space. With not enough snacks to satisfy but enough to share, then into the back of the car littered with books, a puppet, 4 pairs of shoes, everyone in various stages of yelling, of fighting, of chortling. As we drove out behind the dust flying off the tires of the legions of Honda Pilots and upscale SUVs, we in our 2001 beater were happy, dirty, windblown and hungry, the radio turned too loud to the Barenaked Ladies “Snacktime”.
I knew on some level Id have to pay the piper at home. 3 tubs, vacuum the car. I know that the bags would have to be unpacked and repacked. I knew that in just a few hours the boys would need more – a water table, a park playdate, fresh diced fruit some entertainment to pull us all though until late afternoon and cooler weather. I knew I had to feed my daughter. To look up camps, to call the contractor. I knew the my first world problems would still be at home, and that for all that a 9am farm tour seemed wonderful, 1 pm was going to hit hard.
I knew all those things and I knew that if you noticed me at all, you’d have remembered a fat woman that was a mess. What I'll remember is just how great a mother I am.
Im not sure where you were though.
I had forgotten about you.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
And the Sign Says Long Haired Freaky Girls Need Not Apply
I was in the laundry room, combing out the girls hair. She was aggravated, wanting to get back to the Umizoomis, despite her having more tv time then ever and despite the caution that tv time was up. Her hair is short. Not for a man, or a boy, but for a young lady of 4 almost 5, short. I'm thinking of her jawline, her neck. Her face, luminous, eyes big, lashes long, athletic and impish. I come to a small snarl, surprisingly, and think "We need to get it cut."
I meet woman whose daughters hair touches their shoulder blades. Touches the midpoint of their back. One was proud, inordinately so, of never having cut her daughters hair. Surrounded we all are, but for a few, of tiny Sofia Vergaras, of wee Jacqueline Smiths (google it), of long, beribboned, bebowed, beclipped haired girls.
But not quite.
Because that’s not exactly accurate.
“She pulls them out”
“OMG look at her, she looks like Wednesdays Child”
“Her hair's a rats nest.”
"She cries when I comb it”
“It's all in her face.”
“I cant stand it.”
Oh, but it’s llloooooonnnnnngggggggggggggggggggggggg.
So why don’t you cut it?
“I cant do THAT”
But if its long, unmanageable, she doesn’t let you wash it, it gets in her face, her eyes…
"I can’t”
Why, again?
“She wont let me.”
Cut it anyway.
"But then she can't wear it up."
But didn't you say she never ...
Hey I saw you on Facebook the other day.
That was an interesting link about colored legos and gender bias in toy advertising.
Hey, I saw that your daughter is playing soccer.
Hockey.
Football.
“Pink, I hate the color pink, I'm not putting her in PINK”
Look at you, raging against the pink machine. I saw you guys at the park. Your daughter in her retro Chuck Taylors with her skinny jeans and hipster tshirt, peace medallion hanging. Skateboarder chic. You are REBELLING against the mom in the magazines. Not YOUR girl. You are ASSERTING your ass. You are not going to buckle to girly girl pressure.
"My daughter can be anything.
My daughter will be equal.
My daughter will not be defined by society.
I want her to be strong.
I want her to be happy.
I want her to think for herself.
I want her to find love, male or female.
I want her to be beautiful on the INSIDE.
She doesn't have to be thin, wear labels, cave to advertisers image of what she SHOULD be"
Me too! I want ALL those things too!
"I want her to withstand and overcome societal pressure to be beautiful,
to kow tow to a man,
to be an object."
Me too. Of course. My god, we are SO alike.
"My daughter is a person, not just a sum of her parts."
YES. YES, I agree!!!
"It's so pretty."
Is it? Is it really? because right now it's in greasy strands, whipping in the wind, tangled, bunched, her hand constantly touching it, pushing it, smoothing it back, it's in her mouth, her eyes, looking limp, looking ragged.
I want her hair to be long.
Okay.
"and besides, her Dad wont let me cut it."
Heads up. Quite literally.
I meet woman whose daughters hair touches their shoulder blades. Touches the midpoint of their back. One was proud, inordinately so, of never having cut her daughters hair. Surrounded we all are, but for a few, of tiny Sofia Vergaras, of wee Jacqueline Smiths (google it), of long, beribboned, bebowed, beclipped haired girls.
But not quite.
Because that’s not exactly accurate.
“She pulls them out”
“OMG look at her, she looks like Wednesdays Child”
“Her hair's a rats nest.”
"She cries when I comb it”
“It's all in her face.”
“I cant stand it.”
Oh, but it’s llloooooonnnnnngggggggggggggggggggggggg.
So why don’t you cut it?
“I cant do THAT”
But if its long, unmanageable, she doesn’t let you wash it, it gets in her face, her eyes…
"I can’t”
Why, again?
“She wont let me.”
Cut it anyway.
"But then she can't wear it up."
But didn't you say she never ...
Hey I saw you on Facebook the other day.
That was an interesting link about colored legos and gender bias in toy advertising.
Hey, I saw that your daughter is playing soccer.
Hockey.
Football.
“Pink, I hate the color pink, I'm not putting her in PINK”
Look at you, raging against the pink machine. I saw you guys at the park. Your daughter in her retro Chuck Taylors with her skinny jeans and hipster tshirt, peace medallion hanging. Skateboarder chic. You are REBELLING against the mom in the magazines. Not YOUR girl. You are ASSERTING your ass. You are not going to buckle to girly girl pressure.
"My daughter can be anything.
My daughter will be equal.
My daughter will not be defined by society.
I want her to be strong.
I want her to be happy.
I want her to think for herself.
I want her to find love, male or female.
I want her to be beautiful on the INSIDE.
She doesn't have to be thin, wear labels, cave to advertisers image of what she SHOULD be"
Me too! I want ALL those things too!
"I want her to withstand and overcome societal pressure to be beautiful,
to kow tow to a man,
to be an object."
Me too. Of course. My god, we are SO alike.
"My daughter is a person, not just a sum of her parts."
YES. YES, I agree!!!
"It's so pretty."
Is it? Is it really? because right now it's in greasy strands, whipping in the wind, tangled, bunched, her hand constantly touching it, pushing it, smoothing it back, it's in her mouth, her eyes, looking limp, looking ragged.
I want her hair to be long.
Okay.
"and besides, her Dad wont let me cut it."
Heads up. Quite literally.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
cont...
The upside is I scored 2 chairs at Salvation Army for $6 - so a new "thrift" project.
I emptied a tote of crab to donate.
I had a spectacular homemade lunch AND did not cave to donut/coffee pressure.
I had a nice text convo with a new friend.
And
I might see if we can get a swingset so I can have many many playdates in the future.
Atthe end of the day, it's fine. Its just the beginning of another day.
I emptied a tote of crab to donate.
I had a spectacular homemade lunch AND did not cave to donut/coffee pressure.
I had a nice text convo with a new friend.
And
I might see if we can get a swingset so I can have many many playdates in the future.
Atthe end of the day, it's fine. Its just the beginning of another day.
All This Wastin Inside
Somewhat apropos I hear the lyrics of Outside in my head today.
"I'm on the outside
I'm looking in
I can see through you
See your true colors
'Cause inside you're ugly
Ugly like me
I can see through you
See to the real you..."
or even
"All the times that I cried
All this wastin
It's all inside
And I feel all this pain
Stuffed it down
It's back again
And I lie here in bed
All alone
I can’t mend but I feel
Tomorrow will be okay"
I saw my friend Sharon a week or so ago, who handed me a bag from her nurse practitioner with samples of Lexipro. maybe 10 day’s worth? She put a million parentheses around it, as if I were going to be insulted and she was positively Chinese waiter in her obsequiousness. 'Really" I assured her "I’m NOT insulted. Truly"
I have been - and said it often - anxious since forever. Anxious and - not depressed - but of a depressed nature that I work daily to overcome. And it’s difficult. I feel periods of happiness, many in each day, many minutes of hours, in life Id say I am happy slash satisfied. But joy or release or even relaxation are foreign to me.
When I was younger I could sleep away depression. If something was getting to me, something had me anxious, two days in bed, some bad tv and a few jumping jacks and Id be good to go. Now it’s much harder. Because there is no sleeping in, and no reprieve from tasks, from chores, from ideas or challenges to do the next thing. As I write this I feel breath in my throat. Minutia. Trash bags filling my driveway of stripped wallpaper, of a months worth of recycling. Broken barrels where squirrels gnawed through for snacks. One small area consuming me, taunting me, needing to be organized and cleaned - then on to another then another. I can feel each thing calling for attention and taking even the time to write takes away from the next thing to do.
Logically, I’m insane. Its trash. Its paper. It can wait.
Illogically I’m consumed with penance projects. If you do THIS then this reward will come. If you do that, then THIS will happen. I furiously try to create order and harmony with limited time and tools.
"just LIVE your life" My god, a nickel for every time and I could BUY a new life.
That aside, today is crushing. Its 10am and instead of feeling like the day unfolds in front of me, I feel the countdown timer screaming "FINISH SOMETHING" "Do SOMETHING" "Finalize Something".
I’m irrationally mad at my husband - feeling so much that so very much of all this stress is the result of this move, or living in the house that needs work with him abdicating all responsibility. His solution to throw money at things assumes that we both have money - which we do not - and that there is a team of designers waiting to solve for us. He thinks you can call any fence guy, and a landscape designer from HGTV appears. So everything we do, everything we need, is left to me. Every trash bag chewed through - mine to clean. Every sock not sorted, every paper not filed, every call to return, every minute of every day is full of tasks that have somehow become mine. Yes, it's life for sure. And I’m lucky to be able to complain about my first world problems. Nonetheless I’m depressed constantly because the never ending relentless weight of it consumes me.
I put the Lexipro in a cabinet. do I think it would help? yes. But there’s something in me that feels like I can be fixed some other way. That if only I solve for x, create for y. If only I get things put away, sorted, cleaned, repaired, planned, landscaped, finished - then I will feel peace. That if only I work harder. And harder still. Maybe skip sleeping? Maybe skip reading? watching a show? But wait. I have skipped those things. And I’ve skipped friendships, and the gym, and hobbies, and exercise. I somehow created a situation where I put my fist IN the bucket of water and the water overflows to clean up, and I take my fist OUT of the bucket and the water simply flows into the hole.
Lexipro would make me not care. Id have the same life, I just wouldn’t give a fuck.
I'm not sure that that’s the answer I want. That feels like masking vs fixing.
But at my age, if its not fixed now, will I ever be fixed?
And am I meant to be?
If you broke your leg, you'd use a crutch. Yes.
If you had an infection, you'd take an antibiotic. Yes.
So if you cant regulate your emotions, why not take something to smooth them out? I do not know.
Because it feels like quitting I think. Because if I dont drive myself to do this, it will grow into more tasks, more projects, more minutia. By staying up daily, managing the tide, arent i keeping it from flooding? Or am I looking to stem the flood with packets of brightly colored craft sand.
And I look to my left, and to my right, and I find myself resenting, hating, annoyed by, annoyed with everyone around me. because Im angry all the time.
Because Im not sure how I twisted myself into this person that I am today.
Every decision I try to make I feel angry making. Im not sure I can trust any of my feelings because they all are existing under the umbrelaa of being angry. So did this person betray me? Blow me off? Insult me? Who knows. Am I terrible for not calling? Not seeing? Not responding? Who knows. All the rules of etiqueete seem to have changed, the rules of friendship seem simply to be "Stay false" and the rules of marriage and mothering seem to be "Stay strong".
Im tired. Sad. Discouraged.
I have a LARGE box of boy shoes. Larger then a jumbo box of diapers or a storage tote for ice skates. As large as an amazon delivered shopvac. And within, all the pairs are jumbled. And almost every day i leave the house without putting shoes on my kids because I cant find the match. So today, my task is to go to the $1 store and buy cheap ziplock bags, gallon sized. I will SORT those m*therf*cking shoes one by each and label each bag with the sizes and know, for f*cks sake, just WHERE the goddamn shoes are in the morning. Its going to take me 2 hours. I dont see anyone else living this way. Im crazy I think. and sad about it. So I'll hide it and go out today and charm the doctors assistant, or make the dentist laugh, or smile through the phone at my inlaws all the while sad that I am me and that the tide of possessions and products and tiny chores floods me.
"I'm on the outside
I'm looking in
I can see through you
See your true colors
'Cause inside you're ugly
Ugly like me
I can see through you
See to the real you..."
or even
"All the times that I cried
All this wastin
It's all inside
And I feel all this pain
Stuffed it down
It's back again
And I lie here in bed
All alone
I can’t mend but I feel
Tomorrow will be okay"
I saw my friend Sharon a week or so ago, who handed me a bag from her nurse practitioner with samples of Lexipro. maybe 10 day’s worth? She put a million parentheses around it, as if I were going to be insulted and she was positively Chinese waiter in her obsequiousness. 'Really" I assured her "I’m NOT insulted. Truly"
I have been - and said it often - anxious since forever. Anxious and - not depressed - but of a depressed nature that I work daily to overcome. And it’s difficult. I feel periods of happiness, many in each day, many minutes of hours, in life Id say I am happy slash satisfied. But joy or release or even relaxation are foreign to me.
When I was younger I could sleep away depression. If something was getting to me, something had me anxious, two days in bed, some bad tv and a few jumping jacks and Id be good to go. Now it’s much harder. Because there is no sleeping in, and no reprieve from tasks, from chores, from ideas or challenges to do the next thing. As I write this I feel breath in my throat. Minutia. Trash bags filling my driveway of stripped wallpaper, of a months worth of recycling. Broken barrels where squirrels gnawed through for snacks. One small area consuming me, taunting me, needing to be organized and cleaned - then on to another then another. I can feel each thing calling for attention and taking even the time to write takes away from the next thing to do.
Logically, I’m insane. Its trash. Its paper. It can wait.
Illogically I’m consumed with penance projects. If you do THIS then this reward will come. If you do that, then THIS will happen. I furiously try to create order and harmony with limited time and tools.
"just LIVE your life" My god, a nickel for every time and I could BUY a new life.
That aside, today is crushing. Its 10am and instead of feeling like the day unfolds in front of me, I feel the countdown timer screaming "FINISH SOMETHING" "Do SOMETHING" "Finalize Something".
I’m irrationally mad at my husband - feeling so much that so very much of all this stress is the result of this move, or living in the house that needs work with him abdicating all responsibility. His solution to throw money at things assumes that we both have money - which we do not - and that there is a team of designers waiting to solve for us. He thinks you can call any fence guy, and a landscape designer from HGTV appears. So everything we do, everything we need, is left to me. Every trash bag chewed through - mine to clean. Every sock not sorted, every paper not filed, every call to return, every minute of every day is full of tasks that have somehow become mine. Yes, it's life for sure. And I’m lucky to be able to complain about my first world problems. Nonetheless I’m depressed constantly because the never ending relentless weight of it consumes me.
I put the Lexipro in a cabinet. do I think it would help? yes. But there’s something in me that feels like I can be fixed some other way. That if only I solve for x, create for y. If only I get things put away, sorted, cleaned, repaired, planned, landscaped, finished - then I will feel peace. That if only I work harder. And harder still. Maybe skip sleeping? Maybe skip reading? watching a show? But wait. I have skipped those things. And I’ve skipped friendships, and the gym, and hobbies, and exercise. I somehow created a situation where I put my fist IN the bucket of water and the water overflows to clean up, and I take my fist OUT of the bucket and the water simply flows into the hole.
Lexipro would make me not care. Id have the same life, I just wouldn’t give a fuck.
I'm not sure that that’s the answer I want. That feels like masking vs fixing.
But at my age, if its not fixed now, will I ever be fixed?
And am I meant to be?
If you broke your leg, you'd use a crutch. Yes.
If you had an infection, you'd take an antibiotic. Yes.
So if you cant regulate your emotions, why not take something to smooth them out? I do not know.
Because it feels like quitting I think. Because if I dont drive myself to do this, it will grow into more tasks, more projects, more minutia. By staying up daily, managing the tide, arent i keeping it from flooding? Or am I looking to stem the flood with packets of brightly colored craft sand.
And I look to my left, and to my right, and I find myself resenting, hating, annoyed by, annoyed with everyone around me. because Im angry all the time.
Because Im not sure how I twisted myself into this person that I am today.
Every decision I try to make I feel angry making. Im not sure I can trust any of my feelings because they all are existing under the umbrelaa of being angry. So did this person betray me? Blow me off? Insult me? Who knows. Am I terrible for not calling? Not seeing? Not responding? Who knows. All the rules of etiqueete seem to have changed, the rules of friendship seem simply to be "Stay false" and the rules of marriage and mothering seem to be "Stay strong".
Im tired. Sad. Discouraged.
I have a LARGE box of boy shoes. Larger then a jumbo box of diapers or a storage tote for ice skates. As large as an amazon delivered shopvac. And within, all the pairs are jumbled. And almost every day i leave the house without putting shoes on my kids because I cant find the match. So today, my task is to go to the $1 store and buy cheap ziplock bags, gallon sized. I will SORT those m*therf*cking shoes one by each and label each bag with the sizes and know, for f*cks sake, just WHERE the goddamn shoes are in the morning. Its going to take me 2 hours. I dont see anyone else living this way. Im crazy I think. and sad about it. So I'll hide it and go out today and charm the doctors assistant, or make the dentist laugh, or smile through the phone at my inlaws all the while sad that I am me and that the tide of possessions and products and tiny chores floods me.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
meow
The actors: myself, childcare provider, Young Teddy, a small cat named Simba.
The scene: Foyer, Providers home.
Opening: Cat sniffing boys bag, pawing Teddys sweatshirt.
me: "Oh so cute. We are getting a cat soon..."
Provider: "Oh so nice. Teddy really loves the cat."
Me: bewildered. "Huh, that's so funny, it's usually James that wants to snuggle...."
*hears sound*
Turns to look at Teddy. Holding Simba UP by her wee head, tiny kitty skull clamped between two hands, dangling wee Simba onto Momma's lap. Twisting Simba into the worst possible kitten abusing WWF move ever.
Me: "Or maybe, you know, later...maybe we'll think about it, um, later"
I apologized to Simba but Teddy didn't seem all that remorseful.
The scene: Foyer, Providers home.
Opening: Cat sniffing boys bag, pawing Teddys sweatshirt.
me: "Oh so cute. We are getting a cat soon..."
Provider: "Oh so nice. Teddy really loves the cat."
Me: bewildered. "Huh, that's so funny, it's usually James that wants to snuggle...."
*hears sound*
Turns to look at Teddy. Holding Simba UP by her wee head, tiny kitty skull clamped between two hands, dangling wee Simba onto Momma's lap. Twisting Simba into the worst possible kitten abusing WWF move ever.
Me: "Or maybe, you know, later...maybe we'll think about it, um, later"
I apologized to Simba but Teddy didn't seem all that remorseful.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Lovin' my Hater
Two times within the last 3 weeks I have seen a woman at a playspace that I wholly and completely have never met in any other context. She is seemingly friendly, attractive and competent. I see her initiate conversations and quasi interact with strangers within the same space. Both times she stared daggers at me, then aloofly looked away when I looked back. While she was seated, my son toddled up and touched her leg and she ignored him. Coldly. I have stood within a few feet from her and never has she commented, halfsmiled, or otherwise. In short? She really cant stand me. Hates me.
Woooooooot!!!!
Im delighted!!!!
You know, mothering as a SAH is like interviewing every day. You have to talk to people, network, create playdates, build social interactions. All so often I get to know people and I annoy the bejesus out of them.
Or I say something offensive at a party. Or I'm too loud, too opinionated, too something or not something enough. It's heartbreaking when you are navigating territories you have no idea where the landmines are and you cant correct the impression.
Today, I found it wonderfully refreshing to be simply be hated on sight.
For once someone can't stand me that I haven't given good reason to.
Woooooooot!!!!
Im delighted!!!!
You know, mothering as a SAH is like interviewing every day. You have to talk to people, network, create playdates, build social interactions. All so often I get to know people and I annoy the bejesus out of them.
Or I say something offensive at a party. Or I'm too loud, too opinionated, too something or not something enough. It's heartbreaking when you are navigating territories you have no idea where the landmines are and you cant correct the impression.
Today, I found it wonderfully refreshing to be simply be hated on sight.
For once someone can't stand me that I haven't given good reason to.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Christmas Cards
I love and I mean love getting Christmas cards. I want to see your kids smiling, in knickers, with bows. Show me taffeta, mall Santa. Spread your glitter and cheer, beckon me closer with your tiny print and your gay suggestions for frivolity in the new year.
I LOVE Christmas Cards.
I love Christmas letters. No one does them anymore but good lord how I love the chatty, newsy letters with tidbits about the kids, the jobs.
I thrill to the handwritten "ho ho ho" on the back.
I take no exception to the "b" list cards, the you sent to me because I sent to you. I choose instead to assume you sent yours out late this year.
I adore the Christmas card.
Adore it.
except...
Except the beach vacation photo.
No no, not the one where you all had the forethought wear Santa hats on the dunes of some gorgeous locale. That's clever. Appropriate. I mean the candid one. The one where the best picture you could find of your prepubescent child was them partially unclothed.
I have a friend who yearly uses the shot of her boys lounging on the beach.
Yearly.
and I mean EVERY year.
And inevitably, every year as I look at those shining boy faces I dont think "Oh my, how they've grown" or "Oh my, so cute"
Instead I think, just for a fleeting second, uncomfortably, that it all looks faintly NAMBLA.
Id say something but then who's the weirdo.
I LOVE Christmas Cards.
I love Christmas letters. No one does them anymore but good lord how I love the chatty, newsy letters with tidbits about the kids, the jobs.
I thrill to the handwritten "ho ho ho" on the back.
I take no exception to the "b" list cards, the you sent to me because I sent to you. I choose instead to assume you sent yours out late this year.
I adore the Christmas card.
Adore it.
except...
Except the beach vacation photo.
No no, not the one where you all had the forethought wear Santa hats on the dunes of some gorgeous locale. That's clever. Appropriate. I mean the candid one. The one where the best picture you could find of your prepubescent child was them partially unclothed.
I have a friend who yearly uses the shot of her boys lounging on the beach.
Yearly.
and I mean EVERY year.
And inevitably, every year as I look at those shining boy faces I dont think "Oh my, how they've grown" or "Oh my, so cute"
Instead I think, just for a fleeting second, uncomfortably, that it all looks faintly NAMBLA.
Id say something but then who's the weirdo.
Ending the Year With An Ending
2011 I am done with you, and you of me.
I am sick of you, and you of me.
I am tired of you, and you of me.
and I'd like to move on.
Will we then? Part as friends? Take it as a growing year? Its not you it's me?
Sounds like a plan.
I am sick of you, and you of me.
I am tired of you, and you of me.
and I'd like to move on.
Will we then? Part as friends? Take it as a growing year? Its not you it's me?
Sounds like a plan.
Bring Back The Holly, and Mistletoe...
I'll admit I seem discouraged.
Depressed even.
Perhaps ungrateful.
Again, we go back to "first world problems".
Is something truly wrong?
No. Certainly not.
I think perhaps I'm just... dare I say? Lonely.
Really.
Amidst the daily interactions, the interplay of social networking, the hustle and bustle of errands, chores, and minutia...I'm missing...intimacy.
I'm missing connecting to people.
Good lord daily I talk to many and they to me. I see people - sitters, other mothers. My phone rings, my phone dials. So it's not that I crave adult conversation or companionship.
I'm craving authentic honest conversation.
Im craving commune.
Serious connection.
...with someone I know well enough to not worry where the conversation will end up.
Im tired of the banal. The park chit chat. The seeing every side of everything. good christ, cant we put a stake in the ground and express an opinion that doesn't wreak of acceptance ALL the time? Isn't anyone else tired of being pc, being polite, being fair? Could someone say, just once, that "Yes, Jenny IS kind of a douche and she made her own bed and her choices sucked." without the caveat of "Jenny had to do what was right for Jenny and Jenny's a good person, dont get me wrong" Can't Jenny, for the sake of a single moment in time, be a drug addict because she's weak-assed versus driven to it by her genetic disease and negligent parenting?
Sigh.
Im off track. Nor do I want to sit around being mean about fictitious Jenny.
Listen, Im a huge believer in wanting what you've got, and the key to happiness is not in envy, in accumulation, in desire. Im not wishing for my life to suddenly get bad - or worse for someone elses - so I can "feel", but I miss having a substantive discourse.
I suppose that why I like blogging, and reading.
My kingdom for depth. For substance. Even from myself.
I simply am missing my sister, busy after her separation with two jobs and a new partner. Im happy for her, I just miss her.
I'm missing my cousins, too far in miles to see casually, yet close enough to get to with only a little application. Not for an hour visit, but days. I'd love to sleep there, wake up there, knit with, clip coupons with, stay with. Have conversations about everything and anything.
I miss being around people I love and when I am with them, I'm sad that I'm torn 3 ways chasing small legs and dangerous tiny hands or wee lads that havent the slightest concept of physics.
I understand that some people cant have children.
I understand that my life is charmed.
I get it.
You dont need to tell me to appreciate it.
I dont need to tell myself to appreciate it.
But you can have tons of things, tons of security, and still miss human connection.
Ive never been acquisitive, not for things. Not for vacations, or toys, or ipods, or material gain.
But yes, I am greedy for closeness.
And I can't really get that 20% off at Kohls today.
Depressed even.
Perhaps ungrateful.
Again, we go back to "first world problems".
Is something truly wrong?
No. Certainly not.
I think perhaps I'm just... dare I say? Lonely.
Really.
Amidst the daily interactions, the interplay of social networking, the hustle and bustle of errands, chores, and minutia...I'm missing...intimacy.
I'm missing connecting to people.
Good lord daily I talk to many and they to me. I see people - sitters, other mothers. My phone rings, my phone dials. So it's not that I crave adult conversation or companionship.
I'm craving authentic honest conversation.
Im craving commune.
Serious connection.
...with someone I know well enough to not worry where the conversation will end up.
Im tired of the banal. The park chit chat. The seeing every side of everything. good christ, cant we put a stake in the ground and express an opinion that doesn't wreak of acceptance ALL the time? Isn't anyone else tired of being pc, being polite, being fair? Could someone say, just once, that "Yes, Jenny IS kind of a douche and she made her own bed and her choices sucked." without the caveat of "Jenny had to do what was right for Jenny and Jenny's a good person, dont get me wrong" Can't Jenny, for the sake of a single moment in time, be a drug addict because she's weak-assed versus driven to it by her genetic disease and negligent parenting?
Sigh.
Im off track. Nor do I want to sit around being mean about fictitious Jenny.
Listen, Im a huge believer in wanting what you've got, and the key to happiness is not in envy, in accumulation, in desire. Im not wishing for my life to suddenly get bad - or worse for someone elses - so I can "feel", but I miss having a substantive discourse.
I suppose that why I like blogging, and reading.
My kingdom for depth. For substance. Even from myself.
I simply am missing my sister, busy after her separation with two jobs and a new partner. Im happy for her, I just miss her.
I'm missing my cousins, too far in miles to see casually, yet close enough to get to with only a little application. Not for an hour visit, but days. I'd love to sleep there, wake up there, knit with, clip coupons with, stay with. Have conversations about everything and anything.
I miss being around people I love and when I am with them, I'm sad that I'm torn 3 ways chasing small legs and dangerous tiny hands or wee lads that havent the slightest concept of physics.
I understand that some people cant have children.
I understand that my life is charmed.
I get it.
You dont need to tell me to appreciate it.
I dont need to tell myself to appreciate it.
But you can have tons of things, tons of security, and still miss human connection.
Ive never been acquisitive, not for things. Not for vacations, or toys, or ipods, or material gain.
But yes, I am greedy for closeness.
And I can't really get that 20% off at Kohls today.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Oh blogger. I only turn to you in times of need.
Years from now, my children will (may) look back on these writings and think
"wtf Ma, did we ever DO anything??? Didnt you ever write about the good days?"
Assume the days are good.
I only write when they are bad.
Mommy was so Morose.
Here's what I miss:
I miss walking. I miss the feeling of striding so long that I felt like I might break into a run because my walk wasn't fast enough. I miss the feeling of my heels hitting the ground, my toes springing up, my arms pumping...swinging to Suite Judy Blue Eyes, a song no one before or after me ever considered a fitness song. I miss the feeling of being winded, of my abdomen tightening. I miss coming home happy, sweaty and just a bit frenetic.
Water water everywhere yet nary a walk around it.
I miss sleeping late. I miss sleeping. I miss the feeling of down duvets covered in cotton, windows open to the freezing cold, warm under blankets. Teeth-aching cold when feet hit the bare wood floor in the morning. I miss rolling over and star-fishing, feet hanging over the bottom of the bed. I miss cocoons of pillows. I miss sleeping alone, I miss sleeping as if I didnt have an ear open hoping my children were breathing in bed. Were safe. Were whole. Healthy.
I miss feeling pretty. Belted sweaters, knee boots. Different coats not just for seasons but days within seasons. Trenches, fleeces, cardigans. Colors besides gray and black. Vintage things, wools in patterns and colors unexpected but workable. Handbags. I miss red brocade David Meister asian inspired hand sewn dresses. I miss glossy hair, moisturized skin. I miss black flat front Martin Pants from Banana Republic. I miss being able to take off my sweater, my jacket, and not feeling ashamed. Uncomfortable. I miss turning heads.
I miss feeling a sense of accomplishment. I miss being buoyed up. I miss my old neighbors. I miss my friends, some close some far. I miss a lot of "what ifs". I miss the days of my imagination - beach days, romantic days, days spent with friends.
I miss sitting on the couch with Heather, watching bad tv. Starving b/c her anorexia left her with nothing in her house but babyfood and diet coke.
I miss my old apartment. My lemon yellow furniture, now repurposed into my son's bureau and my daughters dresser. I miss reading a book until 5am, then walking in the cold snap of morning to the train, seeking out another page. Going to the library taking out entire series of books just so I could read them in sequence.
I miss the security of only 10 months ago. When I thought the people I was close too would stay close and the people I pushed far were truly well rid of.
I wish for a lot of things.
Never have I had so much and so little.
It's like going backwards.
Learning a lesson I thought I learned long ago.
Replying a tape. A discarded cassette that you were sure would never be played again.
When will my mind shut up?
When will I look around and say tomorrow is now, and live it.
But I dont miss freedom. I dont miss my life before my family now. I have said it before and I say it now.
I used to wonder, at night, why god gave me the capacity to love if he didnt intend for me to use it. And then one day, they came.
I love my husband. My children. More so then I imagine. I might even love me too - although to be fair, I dont like me as much as I did. Tripped on yer own pride, eh? Ahoist on yer own petard?
I was meant to lead this life. My children were meant for me, thank you for the gift; and I was meant for them, "thanks a lot" they'll think "for the curse".
Someday I'll write again about all that's beautiful in my days, but for now, in the dark, radiator groaning, eyes blurry, head aching, wondering exactly who will wake up first in this game of sleepless house chicken, I feel like its an endless swim upstream..
Tomorrow I will smim. And the next day, and they day after.
But really, oh how I wish for sleep. Not eternal. Just 7 hours.
Years from now, my children will (may) look back on these writings and think
"wtf Ma, did we ever DO anything??? Didnt you ever write about the good days?"
Assume the days are good.
I only write when they are bad.
Mommy was so Morose.
Here's what I miss:
I miss walking. I miss the feeling of striding so long that I felt like I might break into a run because my walk wasn't fast enough. I miss the feeling of my heels hitting the ground, my toes springing up, my arms pumping...swinging to Suite Judy Blue Eyes, a song no one before or after me ever considered a fitness song. I miss the feeling of being winded, of my abdomen tightening. I miss coming home happy, sweaty and just a bit frenetic.
Water water everywhere yet nary a walk around it.
I miss sleeping late. I miss sleeping. I miss the feeling of down duvets covered in cotton, windows open to the freezing cold, warm under blankets. Teeth-aching cold when feet hit the bare wood floor in the morning. I miss rolling over and star-fishing, feet hanging over the bottom of the bed. I miss cocoons of pillows. I miss sleeping alone, I miss sleeping as if I didnt have an ear open hoping my children were breathing in bed. Were safe. Were whole. Healthy.
I miss feeling pretty. Belted sweaters, knee boots. Different coats not just for seasons but days within seasons. Trenches, fleeces, cardigans. Colors besides gray and black. Vintage things, wools in patterns and colors unexpected but workable. Handbags. I miss red brocade David Meister asian inspired hand sewn dresses. I miss glossy hair, moisturized skin. I miss black flat front Martin Pants from Banana Republic. I miss being able to take off my sweater, my jacket, and not feeling ashamed. Uncomfortable. I miss turning heads.
I miss feeling a sense of accomplishment. I miss being buoyed up. I miss my old neighbors. I miss my friends, some close some far. I miss a lot of "what ifs". I miss the days of my imagination - beach days, romantic days, days spent with friends.
I miss sitting on the couch with Heather, watching bad tv. Starving b/c her anorexia left her with nothing in her house but babyfood and diet coke.
I miss my old apartment. My lemon yellow furniture, now repurposed into my son's bureau and my daughters dresser. I miss reading a book until 5am, then walking in the cold snap of morning to the train, seeking out another page. Going to the library taking out entire series of books just so I could read them in sequence.
I miss the security of only 10 months ago. When I thought the people I was close too would stay close and the people I pushed far were truly well rid of.
I wish for a lot of things.
Never have I had so much and so little.
It's like going backwards.
Learning a lesson I thought I learned long ago.
Replying a tape. A discarded cassette that you were sure would never be played again.
When will my mind shut up?
When will I look around and say tomorrow is now, and live it.
But I dont miss freedom. I dont miss my life before my family now. I have said it before and I say it now.
I used to wonder, at night, why god gave me the capacity to love if he didnt intend for me to use it. And then one day, they came.
I love my husband. My children. More so then I imagine. I might even love me too - although to be fair, I dont like me as much as I did. Tripped on yer own pride, eh? Ahoist on yer own petard?
I was meant to lead this life. My children were meant for me, thank you for the gift; and I was meant for them, "thanks a lot" they'll think "for the curse".
Someday I'll write again about all that's beautiful in my days, but for now, in the dark, radiator groaning, eyes blurry, head aching, wondering exactly who will wake up first in this game of sleepless house chicken, I feel like its an endless swim upstream..
Tomorrow I will smim. And the next day, and they day after.
But really, oh how I wish for sleep. Not eternal. Just 7 hours.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Smelling like the homeless, a rose by any other name.
Ive said it to my girlfriend a thousand times.
I have the confidence of a much more attractive woman.
Which is true. I make direct eye contact, I smile broadly, I laugh readily, I lean forward, I may even touch your arm. I find something to admire, not to cheat or to be false, but because I truly find something admirable in everyone. Like a beacon, or a shiny penny. Not to say I see the good in people. I see all sorts of bad shit. Im just saying, every person to me, generally, is gorgeous. For some reason or another.
And I mean it.
Since the birth of the boys I have gone forth looking atrocious. Not makeup, not hair, not clothing, not nice. At all. And it’s not truly lack of time, because a shower is a shower, and toothbrushing is a scant step away from lip gloss. I have the time to look better. I just don't.
I look awful because – simply – I look awful.
My skin is coarse, my hair brittle. My skin puckered with the fat of gaining 70 plus pounds and taking hormone shots as well. Nothing shines. Nothing is glossy. I look older. Much. Tired too. This from a woman who “passed” for 28 long into her 30’s and still passed – at times – for mid-thirties in her rapidly accumulating 40s.
I now look, in a word, haggard.
No playing "guess my age" with bartenders. No thank you. Not for me.
My sons, at 15 months, had never slept through the night. Waking up not once, but 2, 3 times. Each. Staggered. So six wake-ups a night, in a 6 hour period. My husbands blood pressure is too high, my metabolism too low. We look like ass. And not firm juicy ass. Like nursing home ass.
It aint pretty.
We moved.
I bitched.
I wailed.
I whined.
It's definitely a "first world problem" as the jokes say.
Truth is, this house is hard to live in. Things are old, broken, breaking. It's magnificent and surreally damaged. It's beautiful in some respects and scares the shit out of me in others.
But it's where we live.
My kids?
Never do I have them dressed properly. Thank god or global warming for the mildest winter to date, where I can get all four of us out sans coat or socks, each day a gift to my lack of organization. A nod from God to get my shit together because this is not going to last much longer and I've had enough time now, dear, and get it done. Get your shit by the door already.
I cant stand myself.
Truly.
I went from funny, articulate, motivated to simple, trite, dullwitted, and fat.
Yet I plow on.
Plod on.
Go on.
waiting waiting for each new day, as if somehow its going to be different.
Smiling. Grinning manically. Laughing loudly. Driving that shit home.
I keep thinking that I'm building a foundation.
That to the naked eye my house is in shambles but that someday I'm going to turn around and we'll be living in a sturdy ass manse.
Metaphorically and maybe even literally. If I can ever finfd that f*cking contractors number.
So as I plod, I'm cocky.
Arrogant.
Confident.
Driving a 10 year old Honda in a pair of pants so old I actually wrote with a Sharpie DO NOT WEAR OUT...then summarily wore them out when the sharpie marks faded.
I am a bad ass in flip flops on a winter day.
I have coarse hair and even coarser heals.
My trash is outside because I CANT BE BOTHERED TO WALK TO THE FUCKING BARREL.
All because we thought "meh, lets have one more"
I may look like shit.
I may live in a house of cards.
My clothes may look like who did it and ran.
But it's all part of a master plan.
Just you wait and see.
.
I have the confidence of a much more attractive woman.
Which is true. I make direct eye contact, I smile broadly, I laugh readily, I lean forward, I may even touch your arm. I find something to admire, not to cheat or to be false, but because I truly find something admirable in everyone. Like a beacon, or a shiny penny. Not to say I see the good in people. I see all sorts of bad shit. Im just saying, every person to me, generally, is gorgeous. For some reason or another.
And I mean it.
Since the birth of the boys I have gone forth looking atrocious. Not makeup, not hair, not clothing, not nice. At all. And it’s not truly lack of time, because a shower is a shower, and toothbrushing is a scant step away from lip gloss. I have the time to look better. I just don't.
I look awful because – simply – I look awful.
My skin is coarse, my hair brittle. My skin puckered with the fat of gaining 70 plus pounds and taking hormone shots as well. Nothing shines. Nothing is glossy. I look older. Much. Tired too. This from a woman who “passed” for 28 long into her 30’s and still passed – at times – for mid-thirties in her rapidly accumulating 40s.
I now look, in a word, haggard.
No playing "guess my age" with bartenders. No thank you. Not for me.
My sons, at 15 months, had never slept through the night. Waking up not once, but 2, 3 times. Each. Staggered. So six wake-ups a night, in a 6 hour period. My husbands blood pressure is too high, my metabolism too low. We look like ass. And not firm juicy ass. Like nursing home ass.
It aint pretty.
We moved.
I bitched.
I wailed.
I whined.
It's definitely a "first world problem" as the jokes say.
Truth is, this house is hard to live in. Things are old, broken, breaking. It's magnificent and surreally damaged. It's beautiful in some respects and scares the shit out of me in others.
But it's where we live.
My kids?
Never do I have them dressed properly. Thank god or global warming for the mildest winter to date, where I can get all four of us out sans coat or socks, each day a gift to my lack of organization. A nod from God to get my shit together because this is not going to last much longer and I've had enough time now, dear, and get it done. Get your shit by the door already.
I cant stand myself.
Truly.
I went from funny, articulate, motivated to simple, trite, dullwitted, and fat.
Yet I plow on.
Plod on.
Go on.
waiting waiting for each new day, as if somehow its going to be different.
Smiling. Grinning manically. Laughing loudly. Driving that shit home.
I keep thinking that I'm building a foundation.
That to the naked eye my house is in shambles but that someday I'm going to turn around and we'll be living in a sturdy ass manse.
Metaphorically and maybe even literally. If I can ever finfd that f*cking contractors number.
So as I plod, I'm cocky.
Arrogant.
Confident.
Driving a 10 year old Honda in a pair of pants so old I actually wrote with a Sharpie DO NOT WEAR OUT...then summarily wore them out when the sharpie marks faded.
I am a bad ass in flip flops on a winter day.
I have coarse hair and even coarser heals.
My trash is outside because I CANT BE BOTHERED TO WALK TO THE FUCKING BARREL.
All because we thought "meh, lets have one more"
I may look like shit.
I may live in a house of cards.
My clothes may look like who did it and ran.
But it's all part of a master plan.
Just you wait and see.
.
Friday, November 18, 2011
something you already knew
as it turns out, i hate other peoples kids. go figure. god really knows what he's doing, creating that maternal bond and all.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
xbox & me
3 weeks of yoga, 3 times a week.
Felt great.
"That" time of the month,
then strep.
then Halloween.
Puffy? You betcha.
And not in a pdiddy way.
10 years ago my new years resolution was to lose weight, and have more fun.
Is it possible that I'm wishing for the same thing.
trite.
Felt great.
"That" time of the month,
then strep.
then Halloween.
Puffy? You betcha.
And not in a pdiddy way.
10 years ago my new years resolution was to lose weight, and have more fun.
Is it possible that I'm wishing for the same thing.
trite.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Dear Husband | Postcards From Your Wife
Postcards from Today...
Dear Husband,
You're a grown ass man, empty your goddamn pockets.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
While I appreciate your taking Girl Child out in the snow, tying the decorative ties into a wet knot under her chin then letting it dry tied was not as inspired.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Your sons are exactly like you. They cannot stand to see a female sleep.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Just because I cleared space, doesn't mean "Oh great, now I have a place to put this"
Love, Wife
and finally
Dear Husband,
I am tired of raking.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
You're a grown ass man, empty your goddamn pockets.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
While I appreciate your taking Girl Child out in the snow, tying the decorative ties into a wet knot under her chin then letting it dry tied was not as inspired.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Your sons are exactly like you. They cannot stand to see a female sleep.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Just because I cleared space, doesn't mean "Oh great, now I have a place to put this"
Love, Wife
and finally
Dear Husband,
I am tired of raking.
Love, Wife
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Be Careful of Charmed Bracelets
"Everything counts when your building a house (made) of cards."
Random Brady, circa 1970.
For a minute there, it was touch and go. I'm not sure how to explain it. One day we had it, the next, I was hiding in the dark behind a Home Depot moving box with my husband opening and closing doors thinking I had thrown myself into the lake.
I.Kid.You.Not.
It wasn't worth killing myself over, I wasn't even close, and don't flatter yourself that I would over you - but for a moment, even still, i can imagine life without him. For the first time, and not the last. Disappointed, yes. Angry, still. Bitter perhaps. Reality? You'd have to know me to understand. You'd have to have home movies of my childhood, you'd have to have real estate in my head from age 5 to 12.
I fell in love with the Barbie townhouse because it WAS a house. I spent hours playing with a Fisher Price village (#997 actually) squinting down low, imagining myself in their town. The barber Phil, the nurse Susan, the little red dress girl Rose and her friend Violet. Longing to walk around the corner of the Merry Go Round to go in the backdoor of the ticket booth. Creating an alternate universe underground where I could open the turf with my blue metal key. Literally. Hours. Hours imagining myself living in a town, with normal people, doing normal things. Innocent things.
I went to a therapist once in my early 20s. I had left the only decent boyfriend I had dated, in hindsight I see he was a borderline depressive, and I was questioning whereto go next. In my 20s with two abusive boyfriends behind me, terrible parents, virtually no support, and wondering where the fucking rule book was and who had the goddamn map.
She asked me to visualize where I wanted to be in my life, and all I could see was an apartment with curtains and sun behind them.
That was my only dream.
Some people, by 22, wish for France, for travel, for fame, for glamor, for love. Some people wish for money, for a sportscaster job, for a degree, for a spouse.
I dreamed of a curtain.
All I ever wanted was a home.
A safe home.
i saw a psychic at 27, she told me I was in a bad cycle and there would be two more tough years, then 5 of growth and finally, 11 years from our conversation, it would all be alright.
Fuck You.
Sometime in my 30s I bought my house. You know, the rest, we met, we married, and as I write this, we moved.
What you don't know is how he gambled our marriage. How he delivered the ultimatum. How the house I worked 10 years to save for, he squandered. he had us rent it to strangers, who I knew were wrong, who I begged him NOT to trust, who I pleaded with him NOT to allow in, he rented my home to them, and in 10 weeks they've trashed it.
And he moved us into a plce I never wanted o be. A place that doesn't work. A place I begged him not to move us.
He didnt listen , not to me present day and not to the child me who bargained, who yelled, who pleaded with him NOT to do this.
And here we are.
In his new house.
Where I work everyday to turn it into a home.
Were it not for our children I would have left him.
While he simply doesnt acknowledge the damage he has done.
Random Brady, circa 1970.
For a minute there, it was touch and go. I'm not sure how to explain it. One day we had it, the next, I was hiding in the dark behind a Home Depot moving box with my husband opening and closing doors thinking I had thrown myself into the lake.
I.Kid.You.Not.
It wasn't worth killing myself over, I wasn't even close, and don't flatter yourself that I would over you - but for a moment, even still, i can imagine life without him. For the first time, and not the last. Disappointed, yes. Angry, still. Bitter perhaps. Reality? You'd have to know me to understand. You'd have to have home movies of my childhood, you'd have to have real estate in my head from age 5 to 12.
I fell in love with the Barbie townhouse because it WAS a house. I spent hours playing with a Fisher Price village (#997 actually) squinting down low, imagining myself in their town. The barber Phil, the nurse Susan, the little red dress girl Rose and her friend Violet. Longing to walk around the corner of the Merry Go Round to go in the backdoor of the ticket booth. Creating an alternate universe underground where I could open the turf with my blue metal key. Literally. Hours. Hours imagining myself living in a town, with normal people, doing normal things. Innocent things.
I went to a therapist once in my early 20s. I had left the only decent boyfriend I had dated, in hindsight I see he was a borderline depressive, and I was questioning whereto go next. In my 20s with two abusive boyfriends behind me, terrible parents, virtually no support, and wondering where the fucking rule book was and who had the goddamn map.
She asked me to visualize where I wanted to be in my life, and all I could see was an apartment with curtains and sun behind them.
That was my only dream.
Some people, by 22, wish for France, for travel, for fame, for glamor, for love. Some people wish for money, for a sportscaster job, for a degree, for a spouse.
I dreamed of a curtain.
All I ever wanted was a home.
A safe home.
i saw a psychic at 27, she told me I was in a bad cycle and there would be two more tough years, then 5 of growth and finally, 11 years from our conversation, it would all be alright.
Fuck You.
Sometime in my 30s I bought my house. You know, the rest, we met, we married, and as I write this, we moved.
What you don't know is how he gambled our marriage. How he delivered the ultimatum. How the house I worked 10 years to save for, he squandered. he had us rent it to strangers, who I knew were wrong, who I begged him NOT to trust, who I pleaded with him NOT to allow in, he rented my home to them, and in 10 weeks they've trashed it.
And he moved us into a plce I never wanted o be. A place that doesn't work. A place I begged him not to move us.
He didnt listen , not to me present day and not to the child me who bargained, who yelled, who pleaded with him NOT to do this.
And here we are.
In his new house.
Where I work everyday to turn it into a home.
Were it not for our children I would have left him.
While he simply doesnt acknowledge the damage he has done.
Alternating Every Other Day
I had a pop up playdate the other day. The kind of thing where one mom says to another "We should get together..." and instead of saying "We Should" I said "Sure, what are you doing right now?"
It worked out fine. Very fine in fact. Almost perfectly.
The mom was loquacious, interesting, laid back, funny, articulate. The girls got on, I was quasi relaxed (once I put behind me the idea that I was going to get anything done)
I had the time because I put the boys in childcare 2 days a week.
For which I feel awful. Horrible. Very 1% not occupying. very lady of the manor. Very...something.
But the reality is, after 14 months of being the primary caretaker, after an arduous pregnancy, after myriad doctors appointments, after my son screaming for, what was for me, the last and final time... it was time.
It was a shitload of money. It IS a shitload.
It's 2 car payments.
It's a bunch of new furnishings.
It's a million things, my husbands time for mine.
A waste.
and I'm no further "ahead". I'm not using the time enriching, I'm not relaxing, I'm not organizing, I'm not getting thinner, I'm not getting anything done.
ut I'm trying. Trying to make better choices. Trying to spend a minute spending a minute with. Trying to, instead of rushing home to do, taking time to do with.
We've gone bowling. Miniature golfing. We visited.
We've gone to the park.
But the list of what we haven't done is even longer.
I'm taking forever to set the stage and not enough time acting in the play.
But that's another story.
A different post.
None of this is going to make sense because I'm typing where my head leaves off thus no perspective.
But hopefully I can write enough, about her, about them, to capture something in the next, to make up for not recording the last.
It worked out fine. Very fine in fact. Almost perfectly.
The mom was loquacious, interesting, laid back, funny, articulate. The girls got on, I was quasi relaxed (once I put behind me the idea that I was going to get anything done)
I had the time because I put the boys in childcare 2 days a week.
For which I feel awful. Horrible. Very 1% not occupying. very lady of the manor. Very...something.
But the reality is, after 14 months of being the primary caretaker, after an arduous pregnancy, after myriad doctors appointments, after my son screaming for, what was for me, the last and final time... it was time.
It was a shitload of money. It IS a shitload.
It's 2 car payments.
It's a bunch of new furnishings.
It's a million things, my husbands time for mine.
A waste.
and I'm no further "ahead". I'm not using the time enriching, I'm not relaxing, I'm not organizing, I'm not getting thinner, I'm not getting anything done.
ut I'm trying. Trying to make better choices. Trying to spend a minute spending a minute with. Trying to, instead of rushing home to do, taking time to do with.
We've gone bowling. Miniature golfing. We visited.
We've gone to the park.
But the list of what we haven't done is even longer.
I'm taking forever to set the stage and not enough time acting in the play.
But that's another story.
A different post.
None of this is going to make sense because I'm typing where my head leaves off thus no perspective.
But hopefully I can write enough, about her, about them, to capture something in the next, to make up for not recording the last.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Loose Wheel...
You know that Kenny Rogers song "You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille" where Lucille is supposed to be the bad guy? The older I get the less I blame Lucille...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Why I started Dieting Yesterday. A Short Essay.
DIET LOG:
There I was. Making IT happen. I was at the tot park NAILING it with 3 kids. Snacks, juice, wipes. I had it. Kids running around having fun, I was doin' it. Babies getting trampled on by 19 month olds, meh - like water off my back. Until my wee Teddy started wailing to beat the band. Screaming, crying, lips quivering staring out the fence at the retreating back of an exiting mom.
"OMG, Teddy, what's the MATTER????"
He turned and looked at me astonished. If Mommy is HERE, how could she just have left me??? Light dawned. He smiled.
Then I looked at the woman walking away.
Who had an ENORMOUS ass.
Day two, so far so good.
There I was. Making IT happen. I was at the tot park NAILING it with 3 kids. Snacks, juice, wipes. I had it. Kids running around having fun, I was doin' it. Babies getting trampled on by 19 month olds, meh - like water off my back. Until my wee Teddy started wailing to beat the band. Screaming, crying, lips quivering staring out the fence at the retreating back of an exiting mom.
"OMG, Teddy, what's the MATTER????"
He turned and looked at me astonished. If Mommy is HERE, how could she just have left me??? Light dawned. He smiled.
Then I looked at the woman walking away.
Who had an ENORMOUS ass.
Day two, so far so good.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
reunited...and it feels so good
My sleepless Teddy is on the floor next to me, the real twins, Ellie and James lay upstairs, slumbering with Daddy, that trio of snorers, while Sleepless and I toil on. Two years ago now, I sealed the toys in plastic. Two flowers, a pot, a worm. I had never hear of Melissa and Doug, nor Chugginton, nor Swiper. "Boots I can see. I know he's wearing boots but whats his name?...WHY DOES SHE KEEP SAYING BOOTS???!!!"
Later I found the fourth flower but alas, it was too late. Or I was too ambivalent. For two long years this flower has haunted us. Doing nothing but float in the random assorted toys toybox, a shoebox really because I seldom allow any disconnected toys in the house. Dear daughter has the same blocks, the same rattle music makers, the same books, all in their labeled compartments. She's four. Oh god, really? Do we really never get new toys??
Early intervention came for James. "He's social, highly in fact" they nodded encouragingly. "But he doesnt reach for toys. Doesn't close his hand around a cheerio. Doesnt follow a toy when dropped."
'Oh' I nodded, asif mentally taking notes. Not effecting concern but far less concerned then one might imagine.
Upon husbands arrival.."You know, we really should have thought to give him toys."
Whhoops.
So out came the flower pot, new bins labeled, a small tiny playroom coopted, a duaghter pushed out, her three or four labeled boxes still in plce, elbowed behind swings, jumpers, a double playpen.
It's been about 6 weeks now. He's reaching for toys. The eating is still off, the muscle control... but he reaches some.
And tonight.
For the first time in two years? The reunion tour.
As I placed them in absently, recognition dawned and I felt a surge of joy...like finding a ten in your pocket.
One, two, worm, FOUR.
Together again at last.
What goes around comes around.
Welcome back flower pot and compadres.
Nice to see you again.
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