My Demons

Let me come clean here for a second. As a blogger, for the most part, there are some things (as in life) I just don't talk about. Somethings I don't talk about because I don't want to hurt people that read this blog. Somethings I don't write about because they are too embarrassing and honest. And some things I don't talk about because I don't want people to think I am a loony toon. But I've decided today is the day to fess up with a few of the things I rarely ever talk about.

1) My Parenting: Do you ever feel like you are doing the most horrible job in the world of parenting? Boy, I sure do. Several times throughout the day in fact. You see, I love my child. I think I am a great parent in a lot of respects. I am fun. I snuggle him continuously throughout the day. He has my undivided attention most of the time. He is smart and handsome and everyone loves him, so I must be doing something right. But the number one thing I hate about my parenting is that I am a screamer. Sure, I would be far worse if I was a hitter or a hater, but being a yeller is bad enough. Now, that's not to say I yell at the boy all the time, but too much of the time when he is misbehaving, I default to the screaming, yelling mode. And I hate it. He is a boy see, so he does all kinds of manly things like lashing out and not listening and being a general toot, and boy, oh, boy does it make me mad. So, I yell to get his attention. Sometimes it works, but most of the time I just end up feeling terrible that I yelled at him. I can picture him years from now having complete immunity to my shouts... "There goes Mom again... You know how she is... Always going off the handle." I can already picture the secret club he and the Hub will form. The knowing glances. The "here she goes again" eye rolls. Usually the yelling is followed up with lavish snuggling and kisses and hugs, so the Bub and I are already forming a unhealthy cycle of "scream, snuggle, repeat" when it comes to discipline. Sometimes I think he pushes my buttons on purpose so that I will scream at him and it will eventually lead to love. Ugh. I am working on it. Always trying to do better. Someday I hope the boy will forgive me for having a huge mouth.

2) My Self: Right now, I hate the way I look. I've spend my entire 30s in this state of hating the way I look. It started when the Hub and I hooked up. I was happy. In love. I went from dating a marathon runner (hey Jules!) to dating a nester. I went from date night including salad, cold soup and a brisk walk to date nights spent baking cakes, stripping squid to fry calamari and snuggling-in on the couch to watch a movie with a giant bowl of popcorn. The Hub and I are self-professed foodies at this point. I write about food. I love food. Somehow I manage to make it to the gym on a regular basis, but that doesn't help much in warding off the midlife poundage when there are fajitas on the grill. I went from being a 20-something hottie to being a middle-aged dumpy housewife in almost the blink of an eye. Now that the Bub is getting older, and sparks of my former self are starting to shine through, I have been working on myself again... and let me just tell you it sucks. You have to work twice as hard as you did when you were younger and the results are slow in coming. Not to mention, sometimes I go days without a shower... DAYS... When I drop the Bub off at school I wonder how the hell some of these moms do it. Perfect coiffed at 8 in the morning. Makeup... hair... clothes. This morning I still had my yesterday after-pool hair and I managed to slip on a Arab 'thoub' I bought in Cairo. (You know, the long, floor length dress-like robe Middle Eastern men wear? Sexy, right?) I was looking around at all the cute wives in their tank tops and mini skirts and man did I feel about 78. So, I am working on it. Again, always trying to do better. Someday I hope I can forgive myself for getting a fat ass.

3) My Husband: As a wife, I feel like I am constantly disappointing my husband. I try really hard to keep the house clean, to be happy, to keep the car clean, to keep the Bub happy... but somehow it never seems enough. If the Hub comes home and the house is clean and I am happy (I am never happy if the house isn't clean)... then he is happy. If I am disheveled and struggling and fighting with the boy, he breathes a heavy sigh and then, sort of, checks out from me. And I can't say I blame him. Who wants to spend all day at work just to come home to unrest and chaos? See, that's the thing about the Hub. If I am unhappy, he takes it personally. He thinks it is his fault. I would say 60% of the time he comes home to happy, and the other 40% he comes home to me tired and struggling. So... when I am standing ten feet in chaos... feeling tired and worn out and terrible... what I would love more than anything is for the Hub to come in and sweep me into his arms and make me feel for one minute like I am pretty and not a housewife and not fighting with my child. But instead, I get the silence. And on some level I understand it. I do understand my husband. He handles conflict differently than I do, and I'm fine with that, I am... but sometimes it would be nice if he was a little less from Mars and I was a little less from Crazyland. We are working on it. Always trying to do better. Someday I hope the Hub with forgive me for always feeling overwhelmed and adrift.

4) My Family: So there is the Hub/Bub, and beyond that I have two sisters, a mother, a father and a 94-year-old grandmother. The five of us have been through a lot together. So, I am writing a book about the years of my youth when all the women lived in one house together and my dad lived 2,000 miles away. And it is hard. Really hard. I know I have to finish the book. Finishing the book is just one of those personal goals I have in my life that must be done. But again, it is hard. Trying to write honestly without hurting anyone. Trying to write honestly without making myself look like an ass. Trying to write honestly, period, is hard. It is a memoir, and memoirs are filled with the memories of people who write them, but aren't always the way other people remember things. I know, no matter how hard I try to not hurt my family, something I write will. I love my family. The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt any of them. So, no matter what happens... If I finish the book and it languishes on the shelf of our family history for eternity. If I finish the book and someone thinks it is actually worth a crap and wants to publish it. I hope my family will understand and know that mine is just one voice in a family of many. That hopefully it will be one more stepping stone in moving forward and moving on. We are all always working on it. Always trying to be better together. Someday I hope they will all forgive me for saying too much.

5) My Mortality: Over the past few years, you've heard this theme a lot from me. I am morbidly preoccupied with death at this point in my life. It is the first thing that comes to mind when I wake up at 2 in the morning. It is what I think about when I look in my son's eyes. It is what I worry about when I feel a twitch in my chest. I am absolutely terrified of dying. Everything I read in the paper scares the shit out of me. I can't think about Iraq... Afghanistan... Iran... New York... down the street... without feeling terrified and sad for people and their pain. It almost consumes me... almost. This one little life. This one life we all have to live. What the hell does it mean, when it can so easily be snuffed away? I do not want to die. I do not want my child, my husband, my loved ones to die. I keep thinking that if I keep thinking, an answer will come. A antidote to the fear will wash over me, and I'll feel a peace and serenity about it all. But I wait and I think and I worry and I fear and nothing comes. No great answer. I assume this is the point in a "non-believer's" life when they turn to God, but the thing is, I am not a non-believer in the traditional sense. Just because I don't believe in religion doesn't mean that I don't believe in spirituality. So I search, always working on it. Always trying to understand. I hope I will understand when the time comes. I hope I will not be afraid.

Now that I've depressed the crap out of everyone... know this. I use this blog to purge a lot. Despite what you might think, my life is not all doom and gloom. I have not painted all the walls in my house black and I do not write poetry in my own blood. And I do not spend every second of my life miserable. Quite the contrary, in fact. Most people think I'm pretty funny and friendly and helpful and sexy if a little bit wacky. So there. I just wanted to say a few things. Get them out there.

The Hub/Bub and I went to our neighborhood Fourth of July wagon parade... after the Bub pulled and rode and sweated in the July Texas heat for blocks and blocks and blocks. After we trekked up the hill to the Episcopal Diocese of Texas headquarters for lemonade dished out by local boy scouts. After we all recited a few patriotic poems and songs... the Bub looked up at us and said , "This is the best lemonade I've ever had in my whole life."

I guess all the lemons I have do make for some nice summer refreshment.

Just keep livin', man.