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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)