toddlers and other things that go bump in the night

Captain’s Log…July 28, 2014

10:28pm

Before we get started, let me just confess that I have been drinking some pretty liberal bourb-a-lurb-a-nades and may not be fit to fly this ship. With that out of the way….

Toddlers…let me tell you about toddlers.

I like toddlers, as long as I do not have to live with them. Toddlers are diabolical. Severely deranged and possibly evil. Again, I have had quite a few snorts of bourbon—mostly, but not entirely, because of toddlers.

Today, the shrieking pee-bot dropped my laptop on the ground, destroyed my ink block for my art, raided my art box, peed on my pillow, ate the cat’s food, ate a fistful of butter, stole her father’s coffee, dumped milk all over the furniture and floor while I put the baby down for a nap, took down her eight year old brother by grabbing a fistful of his hair as he tried to get in his seat in the car, tormented her very sensitive eight year old brother repeatedly as he tried to reason with her, raided her brother’s Lego collection, spat food all over the floor of any room she happened to be in, tortured the baby—repeatedly, and many other things that I have most likely blocked out.

I am toast. I am done. I am defeated. Quite clearly defeated. Between the shrieking pee-bot and Thing Two, I am ready to turn in my motherhood membership card.

How many times in a day can one mama hear, “You’re an idiot! I hate you! I wish you never existed!” mixed in with “Nobody loves me. You all hate me. You want me to starve to death”? (said after I fed him a lunch that he rejected.)

I am so tired of trying to remain calm. I am so tired of using the soft, “let’s be reasonable” voice. I am so tired of re-assuring him as he attacks me. So tired of saying, “It is not okay to say that to me. I do not like your saying that to me,” and it seemingly falling on deaf ears.

Is this even working?

I’m sure I’m not supposed to just burst into tears and collapse on the floor.

That’s probably the wrong approach.

Is he going to remember me as his weepy mama? Is he going to resent crying women because of me? Is he going to learn to tune out other people’s pain because mine keeps splashing out of me?

God, I’m tired of feeling like a failure. Did I do something wrong? I know I love him. I love him to bits. I would do anything for him. Yet, somehow, I have failed him…and he is this angry little beast. Eyes red and wet yet squinted at me in anger and hate. I would die for him. Doesn’t he know that? I would lasso the moon for him. How is it that I could have possibly failed him in six short years?

There is hope though. Every time I call him in for a hug—he comes. He plays the tough guy, but he still wants a hug from me.

There is still hope.

slacker mom revisited

Okay…calm down…don’t get excited, but Thing One and Thing Two just shared their feelings with each other in a mature and caring way as they re-did a fight they had where both of them got physically and emotionally hurt. Wow. Sometimes I feel like I’m not a complete goon of a mom.

Which brings us to slacker mom II electric bugaloo (for those of you who don’t remember or never even experienced the ‘80s—almost everyone of that era adds an “electric bugaloo” to a sequel. just accept it.)

Today at the zoo. Today. At the zoo. For the record, the only animal we saw at the zoo today were the seals. Okay, and the flamingos. That’s what kind of day today was.

I was sitting with a friend, at the zoo, while our kids played in a fenced in area close by. The baby was squirmy and wanted to crawl around, but we were by the sidewalk and I was afraid he might get trampled. So I took him to the other side of the fence to crawl around inside the play area while I sat three feet away and visited with my friend. He was right in front of me, three feet away. As babies will do, he found a chunk of wood to chew on. It was not a choking hazard nor would I fret too much if it were because he spends his day with plenty of Legos and marbles to choke on and chooses not to choke on those. But a concerned patron of the zoo became alarmed and started questioning random people to ascertain whose neglected child this was. I was not paying attention until I was questioned.

“He has a piece of wood in his mouth,” the woman told me.

“He always has something in his mouth,” I replied, but I did get up to take away his latest teether.

As I was walking to him, a man passing by said, “He’s not mine. If he were, he would not be alone.”

I turned to him and said, “He’s not alone. I am right here.” Me, part of my head shaved, nose ring, tattoos, stripey socks up to my knees and motorcycle boots. People rarely challenge me in public. I don’t think I am scary…but I know I am hard to read. And I have the stereotype of moms who look like me. The stereotype of anybody who looks like me. Not mommish. Assuredly, not mommish. Which brings me to my earlier encounter this week. I was at a park where a church group was having a free crafts & sno-cone day. The church guy went up to every mom but me…every mom but me…to invite them to crafts and sno-cones. I wasn’t hurt. I have a big pagan tattoo on my arm. But, fuck. They could have at least cared enough to try to save my kids….

Dad at the zoo apologized. He explained that someone had asked if the baby was his. But, seriously, did he think that just because he was not hovering over top of my baby that that meant my baby was neglected?

I am not a helicopter mom. Again, X-generation ‘80s kid here. I survived, and I had crappy parents. My kids will be fine.

Maybe I should get a t-shirt that says, “Slacker mom”

crash & burn

I feel like a failure today. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t have been a mom. I feel like this just isn’t working out and “they” win.

The day started rough. I don’t know why. Maybe not enough sleep. Probably not enough sleep. I knew I wanted to get out of the house—if not for their sake, then for mine. Then I got an email from another unschooling mom I wanted to hang out with. She also has four kids. She also does home birth. And she seems pretty cool. We had run into her family at a few different events, but this was our first purposeful meeting. Because the morning was already rough, I fed the kids a big breakfast before leaving the house so I wouldn’t have to take food with me. For the record, that never works. If I don’t bring food…if I do bring food, they beg it off of other moms. At least if I do bring food, I don’t look like a total slacker. Of course, I had no food for my kids who started a chorus of “we’re hungry” when they saw the other mom brought food to the park. Additionally, Thing One and Thing Two were wearing shirts that they had been wearing for at least three days. Maybe longer. Thing One’s looked shabby, but then I got a closer look at the plaid shirt that Thing Two refused to change out of—and it was just plain gross. The plaid kind of hid the dirt and food and whatever else habituated that shirt, but up close it was all very visible. Strike two, slacker mom. Then Thing One & Thing Two spent the time being rude and violent with each other. Thing One didn’t stop with being rude to his brother, he decided to be rude to every living thing in the park as well as some inanimate objects. Both my lovely things were displaying their most unattractive personality challenges at full blast. Thing Two had his energy ramped up to 100 mph and could not keep his body off of everyone else. Thing One, my introvert, decided that he didn’t even want to be there, so he was on full display of his anti-social, first-born, small child hating behavior.

Strike three, slacker mom.

And here I couldn’t pull my usual, “I have four kids,” slacker excuse because she also has four kids and she had burritos & watermelon and she had clean children and she had kids who were not behaving as if they had rabies.

And I feel like a failure. Not because I am a slacker mom. I know I do a lot of other things even if I am slipping on the spot checks before leaving the house and even though I am idealistic in my attempts to only feed my kids at certain times so I don’t pack snacks. And sometimes—often times even—my kids really are pleasant and fun to be around. It was just a bad day.

I feel like a failure because I could not cope with it all. I could not understand why they wouldn’t just talk to me so I could fix their issues. I tried. Thing Two just bounced away. Thing One just stalked away snarling. So then I lost it. When I can’t fix a problem, I collapse. And feel like a failure.

Worse of all, I pushed my kids away from me because I no longer knew what else to do. I remember the first time when Thing One was a baby and I realized I didn’t know how to help him and so I ended up pushing him away thinking, “Is this when I inevitably fuck up my kid?” But if anything, kids are forgiving. They forgive me.

They will forgive me…right?

journaling…

Okay, so I have started journaling on a document instead of wasting all of my creative energy thinking up Facebook posts.  Which is cool.  I am writing more.  I have documented information about my kids that I can transfer to their much neglected baby journals.  And I have fodder for my blogs.  What follows are excerpts from my Word journal, which I call my “Captain’s Log” because it is more fun that way.

Captain’s Log…July 16, 2014

11:55 am

“I either need more alcohol or more time to do yoga,” I think as I deal with the shrieking pee-bot and her supremely shout-y brother. At least he hasn’t wished death on me yet today. She won’t leave the baby alone. Presently, she is doing a downward facing dog with her rear side pointed at his face as she shrieks between her legs at him. Poor baby.

12:30 pm

More alcohol. Definitely more alcohol. Thing One is freaking out over his Legos. Thing Two is still shouting at me. He does not like my attitude. Can’t buy me love with Neuman-O cookies, it seems. So we will make lunch and have a mandatory walk. (Did I dream about my father? I think I may have dreamed about my father last night. Either that or it is the essays on feminist motherhood I have been reading….) Lunch and a walk. As if that will fix anything. But The Dad says they don’t get enough stimulation—hence their behavior. Roughly translated, I am failing them and that is why they suck. I don’t think they suck. The Dad does. Apparently he thinks kids should be a good time all the time with no issues ever. He needs to live in a Disney movie.

Why is the shrieking pee-bot jumping at my elbow and screaming at me?

1:06 pm

I think the shrieking pee-bot is trying to wean the baby so that she can do all of the nursing without him interfering. She will be three next month, and I fear I will be unable to wean her when I planned to. She is determined to stay latched to my nipple. She locked herself in the bathroom with the baby & gave him her bottle of cow’s milk.

I also catch her copying my dance moves when “Smooth Criminal” plays. I’m not sure, but this may be considered child endangerment. Hopefully she’ll figure out her own moves.

Meanwhile, the baby follows me around the apartment at a Night of the Living Dead pace of crawling, his little hands slapping the wood floor to accent each painstaking move.

Captain’s Log…July 17

Every day I think, “Tomorrow has to be a better day.” Every day I am wrong. Are the days getting worse or just not getting better?

I tried to take Thing One on an outing, just the two of us, to a beekeeping workshop. As usual, I half-assedly look at the directions & think , “Oh, I can find that.” And then I can’t. Plus it was 5:30 in downtown traffic with construction. We spent two hours in the car trying to find the place, failing, trying to go to an art store downtown, stuck in traffic, unable to find parking…two hours in the car. We could have made it to Chicago in that time. We could have made it to Green Bay. But we were stuck in Madison the whole time. In maybe a two mile radius, maybe less. Two hours in the fucking car. When we went home, I looked at the map and realized I passed right by it several times, the beekeeping workshop, but failed to look in the right place. I felt like the biggest loser in the whole world. How fun the workshop would have been. How fun just going to the art store would have been. Instead, I am a loser who leaves us stuck in the car for two hours for absolutely nothing.

To make matters worse, poor shrieking pee-bot got me in a bear hug as I was trying to leave on our misadventure. She held on tight & would not let go. My heart breaking as I had to pry her loose and the dad says, “She’s the one you leave the most.”

Thanks, asshole.

Today, somehow, at only 12:05 in the afternoon, is no better. I could not wake up this morning. The baby did though, at 6 am. I tried to call for help to the dad, but he slept through my trying and shrieking pee-bot’s asking him for help. He left for work, and I crawled out of bed—though before I left bed, I did have all four minions with me, harmonizing the sound the baby makes. We did that, giggling, until minions started pissing off other minions which eventually pissed off her majesty—so everyone was summarily cleared out of my bed.

I then spent the next two or more hours making pancakes, doing laundry, feeding minions, refereeing minions, trying to make a cup of tea, doing dishes, cleaning around the dad’s messes as I refuse to clean up after him anymore.

I lost it. Thing Two was tackling Thing One and then throwing Duplos at him. In my scariest voice I hollered (yes, it was a horrible & scary holler calling up the ghost of all the abusive scary men in my life) at Thing Two, and the poor little thing scurried away to a corner to hiss at me but was too scared to leave his corner. For the record, I have never sent them to a corner. I guess he just felt safer hiding there. I am an evil queen sometimes. “Off with their heads,” I holler before realizing they are all I love in this world. I did apologize to him once I cooled down. I did. I know that does not make it okay. Is there anything that can make it okay?

My throat hurts.

I never should have yelled at him. I never should have. I hate that feeling of helplessness when I feel like there is nothing I can do to get him to listen to me. No matter what I do, he is defiant. I respect & love that he is defiant…but can’t he be reasonable sometimes?

Even more I hate the brief feeling of relief I get when I lose my temper and blow up like that. Blow ups do not happen often, but when they do, right before the feelings of guilt and regret, there is a brief feeling of, “That’s what you get.”

My children are not my enemy. The dad isn’t even the enemy. Not my parents either, while we’re at it.

Thing Two draws me a picture as a peace offering. He does this often after we fight. I should be drawing him more pictures.

10:24 pm

I wish I could say the day got better, but I just got in another fight with Thing Two. I don’t know what to do. I don’t like saying the same things over and over and over. I don’t like his violent, hands-on approach to everything…everything. It seems like everything, anyway. How can such a sweet kid be so angry & hostile? What have I done to make him so angry & hostile?

Captain’s Log…July 18, 2014

9:30 am

The baby is nine months old today. He is crawling like a big kid. Though he does stop to protest and demand to be carried. A bit of a complainer. That’s okay. Welcome home, kid.

I made an appointment to see an ophthalmologist. For about a month now, my right eye has felt weird. Sometimes painful, like a spoon is stuck in the eye socket and I’ve gotten used to it. So last night I started worrying that it’s a brain tumor and that’s also why I am so grumpy lately, uncharacteristically so. Usually I pop out of a grump after a day or so. But this one is lingering so long I feel as if I’ve lost my sense of humor. So it’s probably a brain tumor, right? God, I hope this is just another neurotic episode of mine, but I would feel stupid if I keeled over in a month and the doctor’s all shook their heads saying, “If only she had seen a doctor a month ago, we could have saved her.”

I asked the dad to help with childcare, but he has to work. I asked if he could go in late, etc. Nope. He offered that his ex-con (armed robbery)  brother could watch the kids. Um…. No. So I say I will get one of my friends who has a history of being with my kids watch them, and he says, “I don’t want her in the house.” ??? Well, you know what, fucker? I don’t want you in the house.

This better not be a brain tumor.

I can’t die & leave my kids with that asshat and his psychotic family.

10:14 am

We had a family bout of yoga without incident! Sure, it was extremely casual and completely freestyle and only lasted about ten minutes, but no one started squabbling. Then “Smooth Criminal” came on my mix, and I declared a dance break—even though no one will dance with me except for the shrieking pee-bot and the baby (who really has no choice.) Which, again, brings me to my fear of her copying my dance moves and forever being crippled for it. So I was going to put on a Janelle Monae video to give her a better example, but then I remembered Weird Al Yankovic’s latest release, “Tacky,” and decided to give Thing One and Thing Two an unschooling lesson on parody. Thing Two set at my laptop watching it over and over, backing it up to watch the same part again and again, with his guitar in his lap. Yesterday he told me he wanted to ride in a limousine. He wants to be rich and famous so he can have a chauffeur and a butler.

My therapist thinks my “Captain’s Log” is a very good idea.

 

Captain’s Log…July 19, 2014

10:49 am

Eleven years ago today I married The Dad. It seemed like a good idea. My mom fell down a hill and postponed the ceremony until she got back from the ER. The Dad’s alcoholic uncle got crazy drunk and then helped The Dad drive the kegs back to the restaurant we got them from after the wedding. I was sure I would be widowed before my wedding night. Otherwise it was a perfect day & a beautiful pagan ceremony.

I am trying a different dance with Thing Two. When he starts to ramp up—yelling and calling names and stomping and his little eyes turning red & teary—instead of raising my own voice, I lower my voice and call him to me (or go to him if my hands aren’t full) and offer a hug and soft words of concern and offers of comfort. So far, he calms right down.

I had a surreal visit to the eye doctor, partly due to an anxiety attack, and partly due to David Lynch apparently orchestrating my experience. I will write more of it later. I need to get the minions to the farmer’s market before I lose my nerve or my sense of humor. Diagnosis so far for my eye pain is old age. Oy!

10:50 pm

We survived a Saturday Farmer’s Market in Madison, Wisconsin (home of the largest farmer’s market ever) once more. I shouted this triumphantly when we reached the car. I was there with my four kids. Before we got to the market, we were across the street to go to the bank. At one point, Thing Two crawled into an empty newspaper box with the word “Free” across the top. He drew an audience of passer-byers who laughed as the shrieking pee-bot opened and closed his box. Next, the shrieking pee-bot crawled into a newspaper box so that two of my children appeared to be “Free” to the public. At one point someone did ask to take a picture. I suggested to my children that the next time they decided to do performance art, they should throw down a hat. My kids are adorable. They are. They are gorgeous. The Dad and I look a lot alike (both of us are narcissists?) We created four little clones with huge blue eyes and cherubic faces. There personalities are as outstanding as their looks. People stare at us whenever I go out with them. I do not know what they are thinking. I do not know if we are a freak show or a circus act or performance art, but we always seem to have an audience.

real help?

I feel like crap.

My birthday is on saturday. I think that may be a big part of it. I used to love birthdays because they were all about me. And being the 4th of six kids, being quiet and shy, being sensitive and afraid of attention–rarely in my life has it been all about me. Except on my birthday.

Then I became a mom. After that it was no longer about me. Ever. Not even on so-called “Mother’s Day.”

Plus, some of you may know this. My big brother, the other “em” in my life, was killed five and a half years ago. We weren’t close-close…but we were? We were the “ems” in the family. Mike & Mary. When our parents had us do the “See no evil; Speak no evil; Hear no evil” family pose, he always put his hands over my eyes. Though he was very active in the Catholic church and was dangerously Republican, he never judged my Punk rock Pagan Socialism. He accepted that that was who I am. At least I felt that way. I may never know for sure how he felt because I never got a chance to ask. I was always too busy. Then I decided I should get to know him better–after talking to him on his birthday. Twenty days later, he was dead.

http://lostmamablog.com/2014/03/02/you-may-not-know-this-about-me-but/

Anyway. One time I always heard from him was on my birthday.
But he doesn’t call anymore. And I know that now, going into each birthday. So I feel sad.

And I found myself browsing the DAIS webpage wondering if I should talk to someone. Am I really being abused? Are the kids in danger? Am I over-reacting?

The dad has a bunch of stuff coming up about his own so-awful-no-kid-should-ever-ever-ever-have-to-experience-that childhood. And I find myself void of sympathy. Have I always been void of sympathy? Am I terrible and that is why he treats me badly? I wonder these things.

Then I see how people grossly misunderstand my six-year-old, painting him the bad guy. And I think, “He gets that from me.” And I wish it were different for him because it really sucks being misunderstood all your life. My older son gets his father’s ability to charm and woo no matter what behavior he exhibits, but the six-year-old constantly gets judged and labelled for his behavior.

Then I read one of those so-called inspirational I’m-a-Mom-so-I-know-what-you’re-going-through blogs that is addressing the anger a mom feels. And the moms are all like “give your kid a hug & a tickle.” And this just makes me more angry because it is not helpful. Is this helpful to someone else? Are there Hallmark moms out there who respond with, “Oh, of course, put down the cleaver and just give the little beast a tickle.” No, I would never take a cleaver to my kids, but I do have some pretty dark thoughts that don’t just go away with a hug.

No, it’s not these fucking Hallmark moms’ fault that I have a dark voice inside me from growing up abused and having subjected myself to abusive, non-supportive, non-validating relationships all of my life. It is not their fault that I want my roommate/ex-husband/co-parent to just move the fuck out, and he won’t. It’s not their fault that I am seemingly unable to give myself enough self-care to keep myself out of these horrible dips of depression.

sigh….

I should say something whimsical and quippy here to lighten the mood, but this is not a true mommy blog, so I’m not gonna.

cryin’ on my therapist’s couch

Soon to be a Lifetime original movie.

I feel better today. For the moment, anyway. I have been having my ups & downs more rapidly than I am comfortable with. My therapist attributes it to my having summers off of my degree-seeking schooling. She believes I do not know how to manage the lack of direction I perceive when I am not engulfed by my studies and motherhood. There is an awesome collection of essays about how writer’s tend to lose their identities and their minds a bit when they become mothers. It is called Mother Reader, and I really need to re-read it.

One step I have taken towards feeling a bit more sane is limiting my time goofing off on Facebook. Generally, I believe, I go on there desperately seeking adult interaction. I also look for parenting ideas and knowledge of issues in which I am interested. However, I go on there a bit manically throughout the day–compromising my ability to be present for my kids. I have even noticed that their demands escalate when I am on Facebook. Plus, I do not spend time blogging or working on finding editing work, etc. when I am obsessively scrolling through Facebook. I figure if I can quit eating after 8 pm (which I have done in order to be healthier & more fit,) I can avoid checking Facebook when I am wearing my “mom” hat and only interact on Facebook when it is mostly “me time.” Is there ever an entirely me time for a mom with small children?

I’m sure by the title, you are expecting more about my therapist visit–or are simply relieved to know that I am in therapy.
Here’s what I was thinking after seeing her yesterday. She asked me, “What is the one thing, be it sleep or more time, that you feel you need in order to feel less overwhelmed?”

I did not have to think long. “To have the dad gone,” I answered. Not “gone” in the way he suspects I want him gone (lately he has been accusing me of plotting his death??) But gone in the sense that we do not live together, and in the sense that I do not have to deal with his stuff on top of my own stuff as I try to be a good mom.

Which then made me realize, that is exactly the reason I gave her almost three years ago when I first started seeing her. She asked me my one big reason for being in therapy. I gave her…the dad.

At that time we were living in a 30 plus person cooperative house in downtown Madison. We were sharing a room in order to save money and because we were, once more, trying to work things out. I had just had a baby, my daughter, and she had suffered a rough birth. I wanted to move out of the dad’s room in the co-op, but there were no other rooms available for me. Imagine two adults, two kids, and a baby sharing a room in a house shared with 30 some other adults. Now imagine that those two adults have the communication skills of cranky preschoolers. Hence I sought therapy.

Shortly after this I was ill-treated (and illegally discriminated against) by members of my co-op for having kids, but eventually I managed to get a small space of my own and then a bigger space after that. At which point it was rather obvious that the dad and I were broken up again, so I said to him, “If you do decide to date someone, please wait six months–to make sure it is serious–before bringing that person to our home.” I felt that needed to be said since we did share space in a cooperative house. He agreed and immediately started having sex with one of our housemates whom I believed to be a friend of mine, though our relationship was difficult for me.

I found out about their relationship when she betrayed my trust and told him something I said in–I assume–an effort to turn him against me. I found this especially abominable considering the dad & I had a difficult relationship to begin with but were doing our best to co-parent and be friends while living in close proximity.

This began a horrific cycle of obsession, hate, and anger between the dad and I as well as other members of our house. Having been out of that house for a year now, I feel I must have been half insane while I was living there. I am a highly sensitive person and living in a cooperative house with as much drama as that one had–I must have been in a constant state of arousal–not the good kind.

When I moved out, I meant to leave the dad once more. However, my co-signer on my lease fell through, and the dad offered help. Still reeling from the drama and damage of my cooperative experience, I was vulnerable enough and desperate enough to think we could work things out. And, of course, I was pregnant again.

Which brings us to present day on my therapist’s couch, realizing I am in the same boat I was in when I entered therapy three years ago…but with one more kid on board.

Boy, I am a slow learner.

looking for the lost mama

When I had my first child, it was easy to get lost in motherhood. After all, I was well used to losing myself. I often hid from myself in relationships. Preoccupying myself with throwing myself, heart & soul, at one person or another. Then, in cherished moments of clarity, running as fast as I could to find myself again. Leaving. I loved leaving a terrible relationship. With a note, with a changed phone number, with a move to a new town. Like fasting to get rid of toxins. I fasted and got rid of toxic relationships.

I was fast buried in the relationship with the dad when I became pregnant. I’ve read recently that it is normal for women to immerse themselves in motherhood and how romantic relationships suffer for it. Mine was destroyed by this phenomenon.

The dad who did not want to be a dad in the first place could not understand how he had lost me to our baby. However, he did nothing to win me back, as–in retrospect–he had done nothing to win me in the first place. My being a whirling dervish of epiphanic revelations & neurosis–I never required being won. I was used to doing all of the work. In fact, should a man try to win me, it would only cause me to spin away–confused by the foreign notion of kind words, supportive efforts, and loving gestures.

I want to be treated nicely, but I don’t know how…or what it looks like, exactly. I know what abuse looks like. It’s not that I trust abuse. I just recognize it. Therefore, it enters my life more easily than love and support.

When I look at a picture a friend has posted, with sweet words, of his wife and children. A picture worth a thousand words. You can read the love he feels so thoroughly through the lens of a camera and the screen of a laptop. He adores his wife and kids. He probably even washes the dishes. He probably helps with his children and comforts them when they are upset instead of referring to them as “shit stains.” He probably never accuses her of plotting to kill him, blaming her for everything he feels is wrong with his life.

There are no pictures like that of me and my babies.

I wonder how lost I would feel in my role as a mother if I had a partner telling me that everything was going to be okay instead of disappearing, physically and emotionally, as if our existence is more than he can bear.

I want to know how it feels to find myself again. Long enough to breathe again and be a good mom and be who I am without feeling like I am wrong for it.

I need to leave. It should have happened a long time ago. All I can tell myself is that I had to create these four beautiful souls from our union before severing the relationship the kills me a little more each day.

kicking and screaming

Today as I listen to him stomping and threatening and saying his, “I hate you!”s and his little face scrunched up into such a painful looking ball of emotion,

I think, “I just want to stomp and scream and threaten, too.”

But I cannot.  Because I am the grown up.  Because my stomping and swearing does not show them a better way to deal with their own over-flowing rage.

But I still want to.

Will they be better people one day because I do let them rant and wail and rage and stomp?  Would I be a better person had I not been silenced by my own easily enraged father?

I hope that I am modelling a better way to cope than was modeled to me.

lumbering limbo

the exersaucer that takes up too much space in our two bedroom apartment won’t stop playing “london bridge is falling down” like some demented toy out of a horror film.

my two year old, almost three, who i promised could nurse before i accidentally had another baby who also wishes to nurse.  three years i gave the toddler.  those three years that the brain develops because according to an MRI she has brain damage even though there is no other sign of such an event.  but i told her she could nurse and nurse she does even though there are less than two months left to our contract.  she now nurses more voraciously than before, competing with the baby.  pulling my poor nipples dry.

an irritability that ebbs and flows and makes it so i cannot stop myself from blurting “oh god i hate him” when i know i need to hold my tongue in case they hear me.  it is the way someone would hate a wart that will not go away.  a wart who insists on staying and convinces itself that you really do want it to stay even though you tell it over and over to go away.  the wart does not have to do anything but to be there to provoke your hate and your longing for it to just be gone already.

i know i am brilliant and talented and beautiful and have all this wonderful life experience.  i have a box full of treasures.  a puzzle of wonderful pieces that for the life of me i cannot put together in the right way.  a list of things to do to make everything perfect.  but everything goes out of focus and i hide away and tell myself that i am stupid and useless and ugly and that that is all i can be.

onward i trudge in this lumbering limbo.