I don't write about my husband in a negative way and I probably never will. Besides, as much as it sucks when we argue, I am never as moved by those moments as I am by the moments of sheer love and openness we have.
The perfection bitch that has shoved herself up my ass is a fickle little twat and she makes some pretty unbelievable demands of me, my relationships & my mothering. And while I can "go there" in writing with my bad mommy moments, I can not, will not, encourage that awful wretch with my marital woes.
I am proud of this. Most proud because when I write about things like I'm about to write about (Oooooo! The anticipation!) I know they won't be colored by a post just before it dissecting some shitty fight I had with my love. Suffice it to say they happen and they're likely as craptastic as the fights you have.
Anyway, here goes. I am stressed. I AM stress. My current round of alopecia is showing no signs of ever growing back, I wake up with a consistent and constant headache. I eat too much. I don't eat enough. I am getting ANOTHER fucking cold sore. I dream of crunching my teeth out of my bald head while I sit on a toilet in the middle of a shopping mall desperately trying to grunt out a shit. I dream of mutilated bodies and animals kidnapping my son. I dream of my husband leaving me with no explanation.
I am not rested. Exercising is causing my body to revolt and crumble. The probiotics, psyllium and fiber ARE NOT WORKING. I can feel the sonofabitching cortisol move all of its cousins into my gut. I have no time for extra. Extra can fuck-off.
Sex has been miserably scarce and my neck is killing me.
Well, last night we had a date. $50 Wolford stockings, fresh sheets and a locked door that turned into $19 H&M pajamas an extra blanket and a whole lot of crying.
This guy! This handsome, hardworking, loving guy! He's so smart. He's really getting it. He listened. He cried a little bit, too and then: WHOOOMP! He gave me his long-standing, every Wednesday night therapy appointment. I haven't been able to go in in a few weeks and he instantly without hesitation put me first. Not out of pity or guilt. Out of love.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Fragile Mama
You know, so... sometimes it sucks. I had one helluva achy-breaky heart yesterday but the floor was busy enough that I could stuff it down until the night was over and I was sitting in the locker room, too early to clock out and nothing to do but feel the pain rising. Feel it fill my chest and throat and face till it flowed out of my eyes like the bladder of your drunk auntie's box o' wine. Rose, if you must know. Sweet and sour and buttery and never, never ending.
Crying at work just isn't my thing. My thing is BAD ASS. For real. But oh shit I could not make it stop. So picture me: slumped in a chair right by the door, tears in rivers down my face and my co-workers all WHAT THE FUCK?
I'd cut off an arm for most of these bitches and to my hard to find joy, a few of them were there last night. No one knew what to say yet some of them tried. They stumbled and faltered and made me feel not so insane. And then... then I said it.
One of my most sweetiest sweeties asked me what was wrong. I couldn't even look at her, wouldn't have seen her through my briny eyes if I had tried. But I answered her. I said it.
I said that I wished that my children were normal.
Look. I don't even know what that means. But yesterday, last evening, the thought was eviscerating me. And after it crawled out of my mouth I felt even worse. It wasn't ok. I wasn't ok.
I cried all the way down the elevator, through the corridors, past the kitchen and the morgue, out the door & across the street to the garage. I cried all the way home.
And when I got here? When I got here Lincoln was asleep in his bed on his father's chest; mouth open, hands outstretched and his blond wisps flipping up a teensy bit with every even breath he took. Penelope heard me come in and flitted up the stairs, found me on the couch, curled into my lap and let me kiss her for 72 billion years and then asked me to carry her to bed, tuck her in and say good night.
It wasn't the night I was expecting but it was indeed the night I needed.
Crying at work just isn't my thing. My thing is BAD ASS. For real. But oh shit I could not make it stop. So picture me: slumped in a chair right by the door, tears in rivers down my face and my co-workers all WHAT THE FUCK?
I'd cut off an arm for most of these bitches and to my hard to find joy, a few of them were there last night. No one knew what to say yet some of them tried. They stumbled and faltered and made me feel not so insane. And then... then I said it.
One of my most sweetiest sweeties asked me what was wrong. I couldn't even look at her, wouldn't have seen her through my briny eyes if I had tried. But I answered her. I said it.
I said that I wished that my children were normal.
Look. I don't even know what that means. But yesterday, last evening, the thought was eviscerating me. And after it crawled out of my mouth I felt even worse. It wasn't ok. I wasn't ok.
I cried all the way down the elevator, through the corridors, past the kitchen and the morgue, out the door & across the street to the garage. I cried all the way home.
And when I got here? When I got here Lincoln was asleep in his bed on his father's chest; mouth open, hands outstretched and his blond wisps flipping up a teensy bit with every even breath he took. Penelope heard me come in and flitted up the stairs, found me on the couch, curled into my lap and let me kiss her for 72 billion years and then asked me to carry her to bed, tuck her in and say good night.
It wasn't the night I was expecting but it was indeed the night I needed.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The oldest one, Ruby. Is divine. Have I mentioned that?
About a month ago during a marathon room cleaning session (she asked for my help & made me promise not to proclaim my horror at her sloth too aggressively). I agreed to the conditions and got to work.
About half way through she said she needed to talk to me about something, something serious but that it had to wait till the room was organized, dusted & otherwise squared away. My heart was a billion hummingbirds bursting out of my thorax. Lying flat on my belly, right arm outstretched, fingertips gripping the tail end of the vacuum hose, I scoured the underbelly of her bed. Quickly.
So, I said, brushing dust fragments from my shirt, what's up? I WAS DYING. I plopped down on her bed and looked at her. But she was moving at the speed of light. She was here! No there! On that! Over there! "Uhm... mom?" "Yeah, baby?" "I need your help", she squeaked out.
Fuck. I was ready, though. I have been preparing, training for these moments. Even still, I could smell the sweat in my armpits. What. The. Hell?!
It turns out that my ooey, gooey, luscious baby girl wanted help with her homework. That she wanted me to bug her about it, to question her (vigorously) when she said she didn't have any. That it made her feel bad NOT to do it and really good TO do it and would I please help her.
Help you by being your mother? Yes. I accept. Holy shit do I love this kid.
Fast forward to last night: I query in my usual manner "Got any homework?" And guess what I got for an answer? Forget it, I'll tell you. She grabs me. GRABS ME and hugs me and kisses me and says: "thank you so much for following through on our agreement, mom. I love you."
I mean, seriously? She's mine?
About a month ago during a marathon room cleaning session (she asked for my help & made me promise not to proclaim my horror at her sloth too aggressively). I agreed to the conditions and got to work.
About half way through she said she needed to talk to me about something, something serious but that it had to wait till the room was organized, dusted & otherwise squared away. My heart was a billion hummingbirds bursting out of my thorax. Lying flat on my belly, right arm outstretched, fingertips gripping the tail end of the vacuum hose, I scoured the underbelly of her bed. Quickly.
So, I said, brushing dust fragments from my shirt, what's up? I WAS DYING. I plopped down on her bed and looked at her. But she was moving at the speed of light. She was here! No there! On that! Over there! "Uhm... mom?" "Yeah, baby?" "I need your help", she squeaked out.
Fuck. I was ready, though. I have been preparing, training for these moments. Even still, I could smell the sweat in my armpits. What. The. Hell?!
It turns out that my ooey, gooey, luscious baby girl wanted help with her homework. That she wanted me to bug her about it, to question her (vigorously) when she said she didn't have any. That it made her feel bad NOT to do it and really good TO do it and would I please help her.
Help you by being your mother? Yes. I accept. Holy shit do I love this kid.
Fast forward to last night: I query in my usual manner "Got any homework?" And guess what I got for an answer? Forget it, I'll tell you. She grabs me. GRABS ME and hugs me and kisses me and says: "thank you so much for following through on our agreement, mom. I love you."
I mean, seriously? She's mine?
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The Middle One
I had my hands on her all day. My arms carried her through the throngs of New Yorkers on subway platforms, in train cars, on sidewalks and along theater aisles. We floated past, into and beyond the fashion elite, dressed like it was the mating day of the millennium at Lincoln Center (what a boon! We thought we were going to the NYCB and we dove headlong into fashion week!). "Mama! That man looks like a beautiful lady!"
Her tiny hand tucked into mine as she whispered "mama!" (body curled intricately into her red velvet orchestra seat) "Are the REAL!? Are the even breathing?!" Ethereal dancers swam across the stage and into her mercurial mind. "Mama! It sounds like the music is describing EVERYTHING!". This time, eyes closed as Patti Lu Pone exhilarated every cell in her body with. That. Voice.
A million octopus tendrils feeding her ravenous mouth shrimps as big as her feet and a caesar salad on a plate the size of her whole head... "Mama! This is goooood!"
On the downtown 1 train, crowded like yes, a sardine can, her impossibly tiny face looked straight up at me and said: "I feel like a mushroom".
It started in my toes and as the knowledge grew and expanded up into my knee caps, femurs, pelvis, intestines, lungs, jugulars and frontal cortex; I knew. I know. That I will do anything, everything for this child.
"Mama! This whole day feels like a vacation!"
Her tiny hand tucked into mine as she whispered "mama!" (body curled intricately into her red velvet orchestra seat) "Are the REAL!? Are the even breathing?!" Ethereal dancers swam across the stage and into her mercurial mind. "Mama! It sounds like the music is describing EVERYTHING!". This time, eyes closed as Patti Lu Pone exhilarated every cell in her body with. That. Voice.
A million octopus tendrils feeding her ravenous mouth shrimps as big as her feet and a caesar salad on a plate the size of her whole head... "Mama! This is goooood!"
On the downtown 1 train, crowded like yes, a sardine can, her impossibly tiny face looked straight up at me and said: "I feel like a mushroom".
It started in my toes and as the knowledge grew and expanded up into my knee caps, femurs, pelvis, intestines, lungs, jugulars and frontal cortex; I knew. I know. That I will do anything, everything for this child.
"Mama! This whole day feels like a vacation!"
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
No, I'm not ready for my close-up
As I sit still, my body close & quiet. I suffer.
I put myself smack dab in the middle of some heavy shit yesterday. Some thoughts I hadn't ever thunk in public were falling out of my face like chunks of vomit. My vision blurred, my guts churned while I spoke. But I. Stayed. Still.
And it was noticed yesterday that I do this. That I hide in plain sight when there's trouble. That I fold my pain up into neatly edged packages and sit on them as if they were the most comfortable seat in the house.
This was not pleasant news. As my eyes were trying to focus, I got cold. And as much as I felt sorrow for my kid self and anger at the usual suspects I couldn't react.
Have I mentioned the people I know who I envy the most? They are the ones whose emotions are always and consistently readily available to them (at least that's the way they look to me, none of this is rational, Internets, I know that).
Have I also mentioned the therapist I saw for about a half a second when I lived in San Francisco? He's the one who said to me: "No, you're crazy *because* you're so smart"?
Justifying what I know to be right, logical, meaningful and nurturing behaviors with the ones I actually display is my current and constant challenge.
And I am yet to be convinced that on the other side of this canyon is a Michele that anyone will recognize, that they'll even be able to see through all the flux.
I put myself smack dab in the middle of some heavy shit yesterday. Some thoughts I hadn't ever thunk in public were falling out of my face like chunks of vomit. My vision blurred, my guts churned while I spoke. But I. Stayed. Still.
And it was noticed yesterday that I do this. That I hide in plain sight when there's trouble. That I fold my pain up into neatly edged packages and sit on them as if they were the most comfortable seat in the house.
This was not pleasant news. As my eyes were trying to focus, I got cold. And as much as I felt sorrow for my kid self and anger at the usual suspects I couldn't react.
Have I mentioned the people I know who I envy the most? They are the ones whose emotions are always and consistently readily available to them (at least that's the way they look to me, none of this is rational, Internets, I know that).
Have I also mentioned the therapist I saw for about a half a second when I lived in San Francisco? He's the one who said to me: "No, you're crazy *because* you're so smart"?
Justifying what I know to be right, logical, meaningful and nurturing behaviors with the ones I actually display is my current and constant challenge.
And I am yet to be convinced that on the other side of this canyon is a Michele that anyone will recognize, that they'll even be able to see through all the flux.
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