A Daughter's Voice

It's very possible no one will ever see this and that is fine with me. It's actually preferred. I haven't written in this blog in 3 years. This isn't really for anyone else except myself. This is my therapy, my purging. Giving this life so is doesn't consume me.

 Many people would probably describe me as stand-offish, snotty and rude. I can be all those things but for the most part those words really do not describe me at all. I have my moments don't get me wrong. But what actually describes is ugly, stupid and unworthy. Those are the words I have heard my whole life. Not from snotty girls on the playground but from my parents. The two people supposed to love you the most in the world have told me through action and words I am all those things. I have been the parent in our relationships since my earliest memories. Now that I have actual children to parent I do not have the time or energy to parent my parents. For once I needed them to be a parent to me. Very few people know many of the things they have put me through. Not even my husband. Who wants to talk about how their own parents hate them. I have always believed there just must be something innately wrong with me that I cannot see that justifies their behavior. Who wants to give that thought a voice? So I buried deep deep down. Covered it up and built myself a wall that is very thick and very high. There are about 5 people over the course of my life who have chosen to wait for the walls to come down. I don't want to show this part of myself, the judgement kills me and reaffirms my belief that something is just wrong with me. The fear of rejection is too much and too painful. And there is almost always rejection. You get to a point in any relationship where you have to start sharing. And my sharing scares people away. And I cannot have my children pay that price.

 Here's a little snippet:

 My mom is a bipolar alcoholic, two diseases that are horrible on their own and amplified a thousand times when paired together. When she was good she was very very good. But when she was bad, well you know. She and I had this dance of great times followed by horrific times. I protected my brother from most of it and since he's quite a bit younger than me he doesn't remember most of it and I will never tell him.  (if he sees this someday and asks me I will pretend I don't speak English). My aunts and a few of my moms close friends always told me to be patient with her, I would understand when I was a parent. I clung to that as if my life depended on it. Waited for the day I would understand. The day eventually came when I was a parent and I actually understood it less. I could not imagine putting my child through this. I did not love myself enough to stop this toxic dance of ours. I did not love my husband enough to stop it either. I did love my son Jack enough to stop. He was the second blonde-headed baby boy who saved my life (the first was my brother). The last words I spoke to her was that when she was ready to get help I would be the first one at her side. But until then, I could no longer enable her. That was over 9 years ago.

 My dad, well thats another story. I am fascinated Freud and human behavior so I am sure there is something diagnosable with him too. Something that can be put into an ICD-10 code. However as far as I am concerned he is simply mean, nasty, vindictive and manipulative. He at one time had aspirations to go to law school. He should have, he would have been a successful attorney. The fact that I was born ruined his life (my mom and he had been married 3-4 years before I was born so I wasn't an oops-baby). The fact I was born a girl ruined his life (clearly my fault). The fact I didn't want to go to the army and wanted to go to pharmacy school embarrassed him. He always claimed I wasn't smart enough to do anything but I got all As and Bs in high school and college (except for Organic Chemistry and Calculus which almost made me rethink college all together). I looked like I might have Down syndrome (I wish I was as open and sweet as they are), I better get accidentally pregnant because that was the only way someone would marry me and my all time favorite....you are EXACTLY like your mother. It should be noted they have been divorced since I was two but still actively hate one another. He has all these rules you have to adhere to or else. But doesn't share the rules with you or the consequences for breaking them. So it's a constant state of walking on egg shells. And all things come after whatever he wants. I have waited for hours after track meets on the steps of my high school for he and my step mom to pick me up. He wouldn't even get out of bed to see me off to the prom. And there was the time from freshman year of college he refused to come get me for Easter break and I almost had to stay at a college that was closed down with no food or water.

 Everyone tells me the one person who loved me the most died when I was 4. My grandmother, my father's mother. It's the one thing everyone seems to agree on. My mom and she didn't even like one another but my mom always told me that grandmother would say after having 2 boys she earned me. Her only granddaughter. When it was my dad's weekend with me he says he almost never saw me. She had me with her every second. I have one memory of her teaching me how to feed a deer at a petting zoo. Every time I put my hand flat to feed an animal I hear her voice and feel the sun from that day. There are times I look in the mirror and think, had she beat cancer, would I be the same person I am now? Would this broken and damaged woman be replaced by a confident, self assured gal? What would my path have looked like? Would she have protected me from them?

 All this nonsense brought on by a note from my father delivered Dec 23rd, 2013 with the unopened Christmas card of my family this year. The note saying he doesn't see the point of even trying to have a relationship with me seeing as how we haven't seen one another in a few years or more. We haven't seen one another that is true. They almost never come here even though a couple times a year they are within spitting distance of my house. In my defense, the last time we were at his house there was a plugged in tablesaw in the living room and porn on the shelves of the guest room we were in. No judgement but not the safest environment for young boys. And I did forget to call him this year on his birthday. But I call every few months and leave messages. And just last February sent them Jeni's ice cream.  If you truly were feeling disconnected why didn't you pick up the phone. Our number hasn't changed from the last time you called my husband needing a prescription. And I did talk to you last March/April after I missed my cousin's wedding because your youngest grandson had been in the emergency room not able to breathe. (You wanna talk fear, wait until your physician husband asks you for a knife because he may have to trach your son on the way to the hospital.) If you didn't believe me I will happily send you the EOB from our insurance as proof. I am your only child, make a fucking effort for once.

 So when you see me and I don't meet your eyes or I smile but don't talk. It's not you,  it really is me. I can be polite and nice but even the fear of someone not saying hello back is somedays too much to bear. Maybe you didn't hear me, maybe you're tired, it probably had nothing to do with me. But after a lifetime of being told I am not good enough I believe it is me. And the bad things are always easier to believe.

Cleaning for the cleaning ladies

Imagine if you will, it is Sunday evening, the children are in bed, the dogs are quiet and all seems serene.... when suddenly a woman whizzes by in a frenzy with the faint hum of the flight of the bumblebees playing in the background. She's picking up shoes and toys, swiffering everything in sight and shooting dirty looks at her husband who is relaxing on the couch reading a book. Who is this crazed lunatic and what is she doing?? Well, that would be me and I am getting ready for Monday, when my cleaning ladies come. In my husband's words I am "cleaning for the cleaning ladies" which he finds a complete waste of time and energy. And he says it makes me crabby. As if! It's not the cleaning that's making me crabby, it's the middle aged man sitting on the couch not helping that's making me crabby! Here is where I think the sexes disconnect, women know you have to clean up the clutter or they will spend all their time picking up your clutter and not cleaning your house. It's not like they plan to spend an entire day at Tucker Manor putting dudes (action figures) in bins and conquering the dust bunny army that is forming under my couch. Men, well my husband and his buddies who find this pre-cleaning equally hilarious, think well who knows what they think because all they do is laugh and shake their heads. And maybe they are right, after all I am new to the cleaning lady experience. Thank you third child who has taken away my ability to juggle everything. But the dudes will be out of the bins again tomorrow and I need those bunnies captured before they take us all hostage. And what is the first thing I say to the cleaning crew when they show up...."Sorry for all the clutter, I'll try to have it picked up next week."

You want me to take them with ME?????

So we just recently returned from a wonderful vacation which all moms of young kids know, means fun for the kids, more work for us. My dashingly handsome husband took the day before we left off work to help me get ready. In mom-speak this means "watch the kids so I can get us all ready". Over the years we have perfected this little tango of him watching kids while I scurry around Ross county picking up last minute items, doing laundry, taking the dogs to the kennel, doing laundry, going to the bank, doing laundry, getting snacks for the trip, doing laundry and finally folding our clothing into impossibly small origami shapes and placing it all into suitcases to be put in the van. While my husband may have a more advanced degree than me, he thinks packing the van is tossing things arbitrarily into the Odyssey and forcing the door closed. I, however, inherited my mother's not-entirely-useless skill of packing. Not to be modest but I could fit a marching band in the back of my van and still have room for the mascot. So while I was semi-happily doing my part of our little dance, he was supposed to be spending quality time with his crew. Until I came back from a sunscreen/sand toys/fruit snacks run to Walmart...at which point he told me he needed to get a car top carrier for our trip. A reasonable request, fine go get one I told him. He grabs his keys, wallet and sunglasses and heads for the Jeep, a vehicle without a car seat. As he is about to hop effortlessly in, I asked him if he was forgetting something. "Nope" he replied patting his wallet. I motioned to the three faces watching him out the window. "What? What am I supposed to do with them? Take them with ME?" Now normally I would be more than happy to let him wander about Sears sans-children for an afternoon but not today. There was simply too much to do and I needed him to be, well, my bitch. Maybe assistant is a better word choice but I like the idea of him being my bitch, so bitch it is! I will never forget the shocked look on his face. So I compromised, and kept the older two who were happily pre-occupied with their ipods.


p.s. he didn't even buy the carrier

This is my first post, written on a rainy day that kept us all in doors, cooped up in close quarters for 9 looong hours. I should be grateful for the rain as the other option seems to be oppressive heat and humidity, and the local farmers need the rain. Instead of total respite however, the rain has brought cooler temperatures and crabby children. So I am hiding out in the rather large upstairs hall closet ingnoring the phone, the doorbell and my barking dogs. I guess I should take this opportunity to tell you I am a stay at home mom of four boys, ages 1, 5, 8 and 36. My oldest child is actually my husband whom I love dearly but has the intuitive helpfulness of...well, a man. Oh, and I am the only living being in this house with a uterus, even our dogs are boys. And most of the time I love being the self proclaimed "Queen of the Castle" but sometimes the moat is filled with testosterone not water. These are the adventures of a woman who never dreamed she'd be a stay at home mom, living on a street with other women who also all have boys (what is in our water?) and loving this crazy ride called life.