tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77814402024-03-23T13:51:59.611-04:00drama mamathe daily rant of a 21st century sisyphusPale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-57444025501112116512007-10-01T20:43:00.001-04:002007-10-01T20:43:44.823-04:00Got Perspective?How does one gain perspective? Is it thru life experience? Why is it so hard to say, “look who my child is today is not who my child will be in a year, in six months, in one month.” When I look at my children is see two beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, curious, healthy creatures full of possibilities. Why is it so hard for other adults to see this when they look at my children? Why can’t someone see that my daughter’s heart overwhelms her and that her shyness, while binding to her is some ways, is also a means of self-protection? I realize that my children are not perfect, but…..but….but they are so great. Why does it hurt me so much that other people don’t look at my children and see possibilities, but only limitations? Why does this hurt so much? My sad realization is not that my kids aren’t perfect, it’s the opinions of few who fail to recognize what gift my children are to this world. What really gets me is that these few limiting opinions may have an effect on my child’s personal opinion of themselves. In the grand scheme of things how important is one second grade teacher’s opinion? Will it really matter when my daughter graduates the top of her class at Yale Law School? No, but I will always remember the shortsightedness of these so-called educated professionals.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-80733051015057381422007-09-11T10:47:00.001-04:002007-09-11T10:47:45.652-04:00dead weightHave you ever watched a documentary on television with really disturbing subject matter? One, in which, you see an ugly side of life, where the sadness and misery is so thick that is has a weight. A story with no happy ending, but you continue to watch, knowing that the circumstances will never improve. Have you ever witnessed a home with no joy and no peace? Have you see a couple tear into each other with no regard to their children, who are absorbing every single insult. Have you ever walked into a home where the ugliness and misery is palpable? Ever find yourself being the one bright light that a person clings to in the midst of all that sadness? Have you ever been part of that person’s day that they “live for” and it doesn’t involve their spouse or their children, but rather disconnecting from their horrible life thru drugs? How may hours did I spend sitting in that filth counting the minutes until I could return to my own safe home? The tighter her grip on my time the more my resentment would grow. What the true mystery is why I put this person’s life before my own. What was it that kept this dead weight around my neck? What I saw in that house made me want to come home and take a hot shower. How can a person live like that? With no love, no respect, no joy, no sense that things will ever get better. And the truth is that they won’t get any better. Is it that realization of this fact that keeps one person down in the mud, living in the filth, one day of sadness blending into another? <br /><br />When I was a girl I wanted to adopt a 3 legged dog, blind in one eye, with only one ear. I knew that if I didn’t take this dog home and love it that no one would, but the truth is that sometimes a sick ugly dog needs to be put out of his misery. As adults we need to pick ourselves up and make a fresh start. In my case, I needed to go home and be with my own children, and revel in their happiness.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-20829400713305048092007-09-04T16:54:00.001-04:002007-09-04T16:54:46.283-04:00a new superhero.....mrs. invisible!I found a little piece of heaven today. I was waiting to pick up my lovely monsters from their first day of school and I found that I was completely invisible. I stood alone among a large group of mostly moms all waiting for the end of the day, and all busy in conversation with each other. Lots of talk about all the new rules and the new principal and the new teachers and on and on. I noticed that no one noticed me listening to every word being said. No one asked me what I thought of any of these things. In fact, no one asked me a damn thing. It was bliss. Absolute heaven. No one knew me. I am not part of any group of gossiping moms, all bent out of shape over some nonsense issue regarding the school. I felt so peaceful and free. How long have I been stuck in a group of hard, ugly, judgmental bitches that feel like they are entitled to pass judgment on anyone and anything they see fit. So long mamma nostras! Fuck off you bitches! I am free. I will never again subject myself to the mean, petty, and small-minded loser moms that give women a bad name. This is the beginning of a beautiful year. I will forever be grateful to those cunts for showing me exactly what kind of women I don’t want to be around. What a great morning!!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-45879721088509540722007-07-11T23:25:00.001-04:002007-07-11T23:25:58.830-04:00fast friendsI am amazed at the ease at which my daughter makes friends. What surprises me about these fast friendships is the intensity that develops between these girls. One trip to the ballpark to watch her brother play and suddenly Evita has a new best friend. “So-and-so is so nice and sweet and she is invited to my birthday party, ok?” What the fuck? One minute I am watching my son daydreaming in the outfield and next I am being told not only who will be attending her birthday party (4 months away). She runs up and deposits information to me in a burst: “hey mom, so-and-so loves hello kitty, just like me, and she has those cool shoes I want, but you say I can’t have, and she has a pool in her yard, not a big pool, but little like ours, and she has a pink bathing suit like me, and she has the same my little pets as me, you know the little turtle that is sooooo cute, and she is bringing all her little pets over to my house when she comes for the sleepover on Friday, and she likes ring pops like me, and they are only 50¢, so can I have one, and can I get one for so-and-so, did Nik bat yet, my friend and I are going over there to talk some more, oh, I almost forgot, I invited her to my party, you know, my birthday party, we need to make the invitations, ok, don’t forget.” And then she is gone. All I see is a ponytail and flip-flops running away from me. Every thing is one long sentence with lots of enthusiasm. I can barely digest what is being said to me. I end up nodding mutely, getting caught up in her bright blue eyes and the purple ring around her mouth from the last 2 ring pops. I am busy daydreaming about what the dentist will say about the condition of her teeth when it dawns on me that she has “informed” me that she has invited someone to spend the night. I am not even sure who this girl is but this is a minor detail. All I know is that there is a new member of the “ring pop posse.” This ring of girls all meet at the baseball fields, buy several ring pops from the concession stand and quickly abandon their parents. Every now and then I rise from my chair to look for Evita and the ring pop posse. I find her blonde head among many pony-tailed heads, sitting cross-legged in the grass, engrossed in conversation. Later, when I ask Evita what they talk about I am “informed” simply: “oh, girl stuff. You know, they are like, my best friends.” I tell her that I like ring pops, to which she replies, “yeah.” I am getting nowhere. How sad is this? I can’t make friends with women my own age and I am so not going to ever be a member of the ring pop posse.<br /><br />What impresses me is the devotion that Evita has to these girls. She may only see these girls once or twice a week, but she considers them “friends.” When I ask what she likes about these various girls she starts listing their admirable traits, as well as, what she likes best about each one of them. “Friend X” is so nice, she always says nice things to me, and she was wearing the same band-aid I wore last week, not the same exact one, mom, but you know, we both had a Spongebob band-aid, but mine was on my ankle and her’s was on her arm, and she likes watching “max and ruby” just like me, and once, when I fell down, she didn’t laugh, she helped me up, and that was nice and made me feel better, and I like it when my friends help me when I am feeling sad, and once, she tripped and her flip-flop fell off and I picked it up for her, and she has long pretty hair and blue eyes, like me, and I like her.” Wow! <br /><br />I think the difference is that Evita just believes the best of these girls. She operates by the “I am nice to you and you will be nice to me and that makes us friends.” If only life was that simple. I know that she will learn the same harsh lesson that I have: “I was nice to you, but you were not nice back and I thought we were friends, but I guess we have different definitions of what it means to be a friend, and because of you I now am afraid to extend myself to others.” I relish in Evita’s ease in making friends because these friendships seem so genuine. I understand that we all must endure the bitterness that life brings, that these life lessons are a necessary part of growing up. There is nothing I can do to protect my kids from discovering that people are not always nice. They must learn this lesson. The thought of watching them endure this is painful to me. I take the Scarlett O’Hara approach to this: “I will think about that tomorrow.” Tonight, I will enjoy watching Evita and the rest of the ring-pop posse practicing cartwheels and planning birthday parties that are 4 months away.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-84498947943102666902007-07-04T19:36:00.001-04:002007-07-04T19:36:44.869-04:00mirror imagesI am watching my daughter play in the front yard. She has her back to me, but I know that she is talking to herself. She is animated, carrying on a conversation with her imaginary friend. When I ask her later, she tells me that her shadow is her best friend. I am watching her when I realize why it is that we have developed such a close bond. She is me. So much of me it is scary. I watch her play and I realize that I am watching myself at her age. I think of how much life she has before her and how much I want for her to do and see, all the things that I didn’t. I wonder if my mother felt the same way as I was growing up. She recently told me a story of when she was about 15, going to see the movie “Lillie” over and over again. She was drawn to the story of a young French girl, searching for love, discovering a life of her own. I happened to see most of the movie a few days later and watched with great interest. What was it that drew my mother’s fascination? Certainly the city of Paris was appealing, so different from her upbringing, and mine. A young girl, just on the brink of her adult life, with an endless variety of choices before her. Was it this that intrigued my mom? Did she sit in the theatre and wonder what her life would be like? Did she imagine herself walking the streets of Paris searching for the meaning of life? Did she just want to be in Paris and fall in love with the “wrong kind of man?” When I was 15 I wanted that. I wanted to be somewhere else, in a strange land, meeting strange, but interesting people. Perhaps, being the “stranger” would make me somehow more appealing. Ultimately that is the draw: to be more appealing, to be different in an interesting way. <br /><br />I watch my daughter play and I wonder if she will see more of the world than my mother or me. New York was the most interesting place my mother ever saw. I cannot even claim this. I find that I am almost pushing the idea of spending a year in Paris onto my 6-year-old daughter. “Wouldn’t it be fun to see Paris? If you want to learn about art, the place you must go is Paris. French boys are really cute.” Am I turning into one of those mothers who live thru their children? In a way, yes. As much as my mother talked up the idea of “seeing what the options are” she never pushed me far from home. As her life unfolded and became set in stone, did she feel regret? My sister did the “Europe thing.” I recall my mother’s pure joy when a postcard would arrive from Austria or France. At the time I was 11 and remember thinking, “I can’t wait until it is my turn.” But I didn’t take my turn. Not that I didn’t have the chance, I simply didn’t take my turn. I made different choices. <br /><br />What choices will my daughter make? Will I let her make her own choices? How much like me is she? Is she different enough to take advantage of all that is offered to her? Can I instill in her the confidence to be brave and try something new? Just how much like me is she? Thankfully there is lots of time ahead of her. Time to grow into her own person. A woman different from me.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-32693694726524248242007-06-24T21:32:00.000-04:002007-06-24T21:33:10.169-04:00a pool seemed like a good idea....Remember when you were growing up? Remember those long, endless summer days? Remember when you were a kid and the heat had no effect on your mood? Why should it? Let the temperature climb to 110 degrees? The solution for beating the merciless summer heat: a pool. If you were like me, the backyard pool was the safest toy from my childhood. I grew up in the era of jarts. Remember the kid-friendly game of lawn darts, with real darts? Fun! Nothing says a good time like a trip to the ER to have the sharp metal dart removed from your toes.<br /><br />My pool held about 5 inches of water that remained ice cold, regardless of how long the pool sat in the blazing sun. What did not remain cold was the hard, plastic sides that either burnt my shins or cracked when perched upon, causing either permanent damage or a sharp edge that would impale the bottom of my foot. The pool took my dad all of 2 minutes to set up and was done with one beer in his hand. Cigarette dangling from his lip, he would toss the pool on the grass of the back yard and say, “there, get the hose.” Presto! One great thing about this pool was that it took about 5 minutes to fill to capacity. Once the pool was filled dad would turn off the hose, flick his ashes, take a swig of beer and say, “ok, have fun and don’t drown. Your mother will be pissed at me if you drown.” He would then retreat to the house to watch the game, leaving me to my pool. There was no such thing as “absolute parental supervision” with the pool of my youth.<br /><br />The motherfucker of a pool my kids have is a bitch! A bitch to set up. A bitch to fill. A bitch to maintain. There is no quick and easy set, no matter what the directions say. I live in a house in which Dan and I have set up and filled a 2500 gallon pool only to have to drain and move said pool to more “level ground.” Can you say fun? I must admit that when faced with tasks like this, Dan and I maintain a united front. There can be no swearing or losing temper with each other. We work together, even if it is in a hostile silence. Once the task is done, then the potty-mouths have free reign. There is finger pointing and “helpful and constructive” criticism on how the task could have been “done better.” First we work then we “clear the air.”<br /><br />When my kids want to swim I wish it was as easy as, “pull your suits on and jump in.” fuck that. No, first there is the argument about who is going to use what bathroom to change into suits. As if privacy was a main concern in our house. (Side note: I can’t remember when I closed my bathroom door. In fact, I often forget to close the door at other people’s homes. I have in fact, once had a hostess say to me, “let me just pull this shut for you, ok?” This is both sad, funny and true.) I don’t understand why they have this fight because enviably they will both be in the hallway, naked, discussing who is being more unreasonable. This can last up to 20 minutes, which I don’t even mind because I view it as a 20 minute gift of time, which I will spend indulging myself with something like, brushing my teeth or putting on clean clothes. Next comes the sunscreen. I can’t even begin to describe the sheer torture my children believe this to be, how medieval and cruel. I can’t remember my mother ever insisting on my wearing sunscreen for going out into the backyard. Beach yes, backyard? No. My son really hates this part of “going for a swim” in the pool. He fights me every single time, pounding me with “why” punches of questions. This ends with me saying, “BECAUSE I LOVE YOU AND DON’T WANT YOU TO GET SKIN CANCER. I DO THIS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, OK???!!??” Nice, huh? <br /><br />Before the kids can even set foot into the backyard, I must undertake the 2 tasks I hate more than anything. Scoop the dog shit. I don’t think I need to go into detail here. Check the pool chemical balance. This is hard because I fear that the kids will develop some sickness from swimming in dirty pool water. However, sometimes there is too much chlorine with results in my daughter crying, the whites of her eyes like tomato soup and goggles are no protection against this. Remember these tasks are both done with the sun burning on my neck and sweat pouring off my arms. Then the finale, pull of the solar cover, without letting any leaves or debris into the pool, and viola: time to swim.<br /><br />The kids have been hopping around on the hot pavement, imploring me to move faster and ignoring my advice to wait in the air-conditioned house. They are forced to wait again while I go back into the house to get my cold beverage of choice; this is pure agony for the kids. I sometimes just stand inside watching them outside, listening to them complain, “she is taking FOREVER, we are going to melt.” Evil, maybe, but you try cleaning up dog shit in 98-degree weather. Now I can sit in the cool shade of the gazebo, sip a cold drink, and call out to the kids, “Be careful and don’t drown.” No one is allowed to drown on my watch. And a vigilant watch it is!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-36532016607560716402007-06-24T10:54:00.001-04:002007-06-24T10:54:39.138-04:00And a Baby Ruth to boot!It was my idea of a perfect evening…..Chinese food, Tigers on TV (the return of Kenny Rogers) and a Baby Ruth for dessert. Snuggling in bed with husband made everything right. Kids happily indulged in junk food and a movie that thankfully we didn’t have to watch. Bliss bliss bliss. The way my hair looked in the morning confirmed that I spent the night sleeping. Yes, sleeping. The children often laugh at the creature that appears from my side of the bed claiming to be their mother. The worse my hair looks in the morning, the better I’ve slept. And a Baby Ruth!! Sex and chocolate! Absolute bliss!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-82669106002297982192007-06-21T23:42:00.000-04:002007-06-21T23:43:03.217-04:00panicIt is a mystery. One minute I am reading, the next I realize I have fallen asleep and begun dreaming. Then, I reach up and turn off my light. The minute the room goes dark, my mind begins to race. Instantly I am awake. I can feel the blood racing in my veins. Images fly through my brain; I pathetically attempt to swat them away with no success. I tell myself, let it go, don’t think about it, but in the end there is a giant elephant in my room. Not just in my room, but in my bed, lying on my face, smothering me. I can’t sleep. I don’t understand why. I am tired, exhausted even, and yet I know I will listen to the BBC news until NPR begins at 5 am. The news isn’t good. Even the “lightest” story will cause me distress. Tonight there is a story about the Simpson’s. I have enjoyed the Simpson’s for many years, not so much since the kids started taking an interest in what was actually on TV, but I like the late night reruns. However, this nice story about the Simpson’s made me think about how old I was when I began watching the Simpson’s and how much time I have wasted in my life.<br /><br />This is a reoccurring issue with me, especially late at night when I can’t sleep. All the time I have wasted. All the things I was supposed to do with my life. I hear this voice in my head, screaming: ENGAGE IN YOUR DAILY LIFE!! GET MOTIVATED!! I hate this voice. I hate the world inside my head. I hate all the little “bugs” that swarm around my tiny brain, keeping me tense and nervous as the clock moves from 1:24 am to 3:21 am. SWAT!<br /><br />I scratch the new mosquito bite on my thigh and switch tactics. Reading will make me fall asleep, but not stay asleep. TV has been a real disappointment lately, and causes Dan to fidget and say, “Turn it off and go to sleep.” This is what I tell my own children when I hear them “fooling around” in their rooms way past bedtime. Just go to sleep! Whenever they protest, “but I can’t” the answer is always, “sure you can, I’ve seen you do it.” Fuck me! I am such an asshole. I’ll add this to my list of ways in which I am failing my children on a daily basis. SWAT!<br /><br />So, how shall I pass the time tonight? Last night I spent 2 hours shaking the bed as a means of ending Dan’s relentless sore-fest. Never mind the gentle shake or “gee honey, could you roll over?” no, I’m pissed. Not that he is snoring; god knows before my tonsils were removed I could shake the roof. I resent his ability to fall asleep and stay asleep. Even when he is stressed he can fall right to sleep. This is what makes me want to put a serving fork into the neck of the man I adore more than life itself.<br /><br />Maybe I read some news on line. Or maybe I can read that blog from the girl in Germany who had an enormous amount of cat pictures on her site. I can’t read or understand anything on her site, but the cat pictures fascinate me. I am not even sure if they are cats. Maybe they are just large mice. SWAT!<br /><br />I need to move out of my head. SWAT!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-86265244979466407852007-04-24T15:49:00.000-04:002007-04-24T15:59:53.097-04:00eyes like the madonnaisn't it amazing? i was feeling pretty low, thinking how i should be practicing my faith more in my daily life, watching ewtn and thinking i am not such a good catholic, when i had a phone call. a call from my surrogate mother from our old parish. i had forgotten i had sent her an easter card and she was calling to thank me. what was so amazing was that she said she had been thinking about me a lot lately and saw a statue of mother mary and couldn't stop staring at her eyes. the reason, she said, was because the madonna's eyes looked like my eyes. well, that made my blood run cold. the mere comparison is just to great for me to even think about. of course, i cried. mary has been and will always be, a symbol of patience, strength, and courage. as a mother, she is the gold standard for me.<br /><br />this "second mother" has been such a good friend to me. when i began my faith journey she constantly told me how brave i was and what courage it took to make this journey without the support of my parents and family. her devotion to me and my children has brought me great joy. she has given me such a gift. i am not even sure she is completely aware of how much her love and friendship has affected me. i will be forever grateful. she keeps me well grounded in my faith and serves as a constant reminder to "live in the light." <br /><br />thank you mary for the gift of marion. l love her!!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-65305787548712684942007-03-14T10:31:00.000-04:002007-03-14T10:35:56.168-04:00failure to thrivethis was what my son's pediatrican said to me when he wasn't gaining back his weight a week after being born. it took the wind out of my sails. "you are the food source and he is not getting enough food." well, only a week old and i have already failed him. little did i know that this was only the beginning of my failures. jacqueline onassis said that nothing else she did in her life would matter if she didn't do a good job raising her kids. if i don't get this right, what else will matter. maybe it sounds a little harsh, but i have nothing else in my life. certainly nothing that matters as much as my babies. why is it that i always feel like i have failed somehow. they are both healthy, well adjusted, loved to pieces, well cared for. and yet, i still feel like i am not instilling the right things in them. when will i trust that my best is good enough? do mothers ever reach that point?Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-39286132169242688492007-03-09T12:36:00.000-05:002007-03-09T12:49:53.880-05:00eclipsewhen i least expect it, i slip. a darkness passess over the warm sunlight and i find i am lost. it is dark and i am lost. how can i explain what it is that happens. i am not prepared. but then again, how does one prepare to have the rug pulled out from under you? when i lay down at night, i feel myself slipping away into sleep and suddenly i am awake. panic floods my body. ice runs thru my veins. my heart pounds in my chest. all the mistakes made that day hit me in the face. all the mistakes from yesterday, all the yesterdays crash thru my brain. i open and shut my eyes, blinking it away, but all i can see are tiny points of light that cut into my line of vision. i can't catch my breath. then the feeling of panic passes and i am left with shame. shame and self-loathing pour into me and fill me up. why? why? why? i can't answer that question. all i know is how i feel. i am tired, but i can't sleep. i pace the house, seeing all the things i should do to take my mind off my mind, but i can't. i look over at the clock and am amazed, how did the last hour pass? i push my rosary beads deeper into my hands, praying to mother mary to bring me strength, courage, and peace of mind. help me to rise to the task. help push that dark away from the light. let me feel the warmth again. how long will this last? will it be gone by morning? can i pull myself together before i pick up my children? will they see the darkness in me? can they feell how hollow i feel inside? how can i tell them it isn't about them? how can i make them understand when i don't? how do i even explain this to myself?Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-85375924719164584442007-02-26T13:25:00.000-05:002007-02-26T13:37:25.541-05:00don't step on my boundryi am not good at drawing boundaries. especially when it comes to making friends. i meet a mom and think, "ok, we are both moms, we may have our differences, but surely we can come together as friends." the problem is that i tend to choose people who have such a different definition of what it means to be a friend. i sit and listen to this mom tell me how hard her life is, how horrible her life is, how disappointing her children are, how unhappy she is and i feel sorry for her. i say to myself that this poor 3-legged dog needs a good home with someone to take care of it. however, this 3-legged dog comes with an anchor that weighs down anyone who comes within 5 feet of it. i end up drowning in the sad life of this 3-legged dog and push my own feelings aside. out of pity! i think, who else will love this dog if i don't? truth be told, this dog doesn't know the definition of love or friendship. instead, the only thing this dog understands is complete devotion. if i am not completely invested in this dog's life then i am not considered a friend.<br /><br />what is the definition of friend? i understand that it should be a mutual relationship that involves respect. why do i have so much trouble asking for this? i need to learn to draw boundaries. anybody have some chalk?Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-42531213955052586442007-02-21T13:09:00.000-05:002007-02-21T13:19:17.164-05:00things i know to be trueever have something happen to you and you undergo a type of out-of-body experience where you can't believe what you just heard so you forget about it until later when you tell someone the story, then the person says to you, "oh my god, i can't believe that person said that! what did you say?" then you admit you said nothing because you were too stunned to say anything.<br /><br />i know this really happened to me and it was like a switch was flipped in my head and i woke up.<br /><br />i am standing in the parking lot of my kid's school. my "friend" is yelling at me because i am not able to come over to her house and sit in her basement to listen to her tell me how hard her life is and how unhappy she is. the reason i am not able to do this reallly fun activity is because i need to be with my children. my husband was spending the evening at the bedside of his friend who was dying from brain cancer. someone needed to be with the kids. i am mother, that is where i need to be. my "friends" response was....wait for it.....wait for it......"give me a break! what about me? when are you going to make time for me? you are always busy at home now. didn't your husband go over there yesterday? now he is going again tonight? give me a break! when are you going to make time for me?"<br /><br />i was stunned! are you? is it just me or is this "friend" out of her fucking mind? it was as if someone threw a bucket of cold water on my head. friend? obviously i have a different opinion of what it means to be a friend. i just kind of looked at her, turned and walked away. what could be said in such a situation?Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-42715867032185463992007-02-20T23:19:00.000-05:002007-02-20T23:24:57.434-05:00ah, LENTtis the time of year when i reflect on what kind of person i am and what kind of person i want to be. i want to be the type of person who can give up coke and not feel like killing my family. you must understand that i am the type of person who would have a coke in the morning and think, "breakfast of champions." i am dreading the headache from the withdrawls. on the one hand, i will feel so much better, not filling my body with empty calories. on the other hand, coke is just about the perfect beverage. yes, i know how terrible coke is for you, the affect it has on your insides, and your teeth. i tell you....i don't really care. i love coke. fuck pepsi. coke all the way every day.....but not for the next 40 days. who knows, maybe it will last longer than the 40 days.<br /><br />my monkey boy told me i should try to give up coke and using junk words. i love them both sooooo much. it is hard to give up one without falling back on the other. i will give up the coke, but i am going to need those junk words. cover your ears.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-29104698615496911532007-02-19T16:31:00.000-05:002007-02-19T16:36:41.430-05:00awakeever have the feeling you have been completely asleep for days, weeks, months, even years at a time. i have just risen from a long and unhappy sleep. i was trapped in a black hole of bleakness, depression, and misery. and we all know that misery loves company. and what miserable company i have been keeping. <br /><br />but now i am awake. awake and alive. i live each day like it is a gift. a gift to spend with my darling husband and children. blessed am i!! blessed to be free from an unhappy exsitance where a person lives for themself. where my daily life was not my own. where my judgement was clouded. <br /><br />now i can be myself. i am allowed to live my life as i see fit. i live for my family. i am blessed to have this life. i realize each day that i am surrounded by love. love that i give and receive. i have no room for that empty and sad darkness of my past life. i am awake and alive!! amen!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1125329389210423282005-08-29T11:29:00.000-04:002005-08-29T11:29:49.216-04:00WatermarksMy mother had this group of women friends that she met while in college. Like her friends, my mother did not attend college right after high school. Instead she got married, a job and a divorce, in that order. She was an “older” student. This amuses me because I view myself as an older student. Of course, my mom was nowhere near 40 when she returned to college, but she likes to say that was the trend “in her day.”<br /><br />This group of women friends was a tremendous influence on me growing up, although I didn’t realize this until just recently. It wasn’t until I was older and in school that I discovered that all mothers were not like mine and her friends. They were a different breed of women. Unique, intelligent and assertive and for a time, the center of my universe.<br /><br />Their clothing had a lot to do with my high opinion of them. In the winter they hid themselves in thick turtleneck sweaters with jersey wool pants that flared at the bottom. Their thin wrists jangled with bracelets and they left rooms smelling like Channel No. 5. In the summer their long brown arms held cold gin and tonics and their shoulders freckled in the sun. They wore big hats and sunglasses on the beach. Pictures of them from that time look like a snapshot collection from the Baudelaire sisters circa 1957, visiting cousins from Connecticut for the weekend. <br /><br />They all attempted to smoke, danced tipsily to Sam Cooke records, and painted their toenails “kissing pink” in the afternoons. The husbands of these ladies spent their time either on the porches smoking or in the kitchen arguing the best way to cook a lamb shank. All the men in these families cooked. It wasn’t that my mom and her friends couldn’t cook or didn’t know how; it was just that the men did the cooking.<br /><br />My mom and her friends all had their various families’ vacation together. We rented a large hunting lodge up north. The walls with the living room were covered with the trophies of past hunts. Deer and bear stared at you from every wall. One of my mom’s friends was so unnerved by their glass eyes that she hung all the dishtowels over their faces. This left the husbands to grumble in the kitchen, forced to wipe their hands on their shirts that were decorated with pictures of hula girls and pineapples.<br /><br />These women read and discussed books, wrote dissertations, attended political meetings, took naps during the day, used the TV as a babysitter, drank early in the day, never left the house without lipstick, went skinny-dipping with their husbands in their children’s pool, went to work. These women told their daughters to go to college, get a Master’s degree, travel through Europe, get a job and then get married and have a baby, in that order.<br /><br />My mother made no bones about the trails of motherhood, but she was honest about it being a blessing and a curse. She never made me feel the resentment she must have felt, but made me believe that women are simply better able to “deal with all the bullshit” life throws at you. It was if she and her friends said, “sure it is dreary, but it won’t kill you.” I will be forever grateful for this. It has helped me immensely.<br /><br />I wonder what my daughter will make of the circle of women around me. What impact will they have on her upbringing? What will she take away from these experiences? Will she remember?<br /><br />I feel fortunate to have known these women as a little girl and now as a mother myself. The part that is heartbreaking is watching these women die. Having to say goodbye to these women has been devastating for me. I don’t allow myself to think of the affect their death has had on my mother. We simply cannot speak about it. Rather, my mom and I share stories. What I remember and what really happened. My mother and I grow closer during these little chat sessions. We share a coke and swap stories. <br /><br />“Remember how Barbara never drove with shoes?”<br />“Remember when Joanne would make popcorn at 3:30 in the morning?”<br />“Remember Chris teaching me water ballet and how she never got her hair wet?”<br /><br />These stories give my mother and I comfort as we say goodbye to these magnificent ladies. These women that became “extra” mothers to me. Mothers that offered extra pieces of gum, sprays of perfume, a turn driving the car (me age 9), kisses on ouches, sunscreen on my cheeks, soft strokes with the hairbrush (except auntie Barbara, who always took half my scalp off), silk nightgowns to play princess, hugs at nighttime. These “aunties” have been my entire female world growing up. My heart is so heavy with sadness. How do I say goodbye?Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1124553606913216352005-08-20T11:59:00.000-04:002005-08-20T12:00:06.923-04:00rankI remember the basement was dark and cold. The kind of coldness in which everything feels damp and a little rank. I was there with my boyfriend. Not my first, but certainly the most memorable. He had been so charming upstairs, in front of friends. Lots of smiles and sudden hugs from behind. He also kept my glass full of cheap liquor. I didn’t have to be forced to follow him down the stairs. I didn’t even get nervous at being alone with him, instead I was excited. He was so beautiful and I still couldn’t believe he had chosen me over all the other girls. Girls who were prettier, had more personality, were more experienced. But, I had no doubts as I followed him down the stairs. <br /><br />“Careful,” he said as I tripped on the last stair. I giggled with embarrassment. He must think I am a total dork. But he just smiled at me and took my hand. He led me over to an area that was set up with a blanket and pillows. He lay down on the blanket, smiled and said, “Lay down.” I sat down next to him. “Lay down,” he said. And when I hesitated, he sat up and firmly pushed me down on my back. I wasn’t scared, just nervous. I wanted to be whatever it was he wanted me to be. I wanted to be special, to be part of something, what that something was remained indefinable to me. “Relax,” he says in my ear. It wasn’t a comforting whisper; instead it was kind of an irritated and harsh voice. I was becoming troublesome to him. This always filled me with fear. Whenever I would grow tiresome or he would become weary of me I would desperately try to change. I was like a clown, trying to please him, but his moods changed so quickly, I was always at a disadvantage, playing catch-up.<br /><br />And then, I cease to exist. Who I am no longer matters. I am there for one purpose, not my own, but rather for the service of someone else. Someone who said they loved me. Someone who said I was the one they wanted. Someone who like to use force and manipulation to get what they wanted. I close my eyes and try and put myself somewhere else. I keep shivering, but I don’t think it is just because of the cold basement. “Come on,” he is really getting irritated now. The next time he tugs at my underwear, I know better than to push his hand away. Doesn’t he notice I am not participating in this? Doesn’t he notice I am not moving? Doesn’t he notice I am invisible? He pushes his tongue down my throat and tears into me.<br /><br />I am 15 years old. I am in a very cold and dark basement. My underwear is torn, but I try to put it on anyway. “Hurry up,” he says. He is anxious to return to the party. I follow him up the stairs. When we reach the top he holds my arm and turns me to face him, smiling he says, “there. That wasn’t so bad? It was nothing.” It was nothing. I am nothing. And I knew in that instant that it would always be this way. I would always be nothing.<br /><br />The next morning I stayed in bed and told myself that I would never see him again. He should have known better. He should have been more careful with me. I get up to use the bathroom. I see the blood in my underwear and vomit. What I really know is that I have a choice to make. I can choose to never go back to him. I can choose to do what is best for me. I can choose someone who will love and respect me. I can learn to respect myself. But I made the other decision. The one that has me go back to him. The one that has me hating myself. The kind of self-loathing that turns violent.<br /><br />It was a choice that I made. It has shaped and defined who I am today. It also will define how I raise my daughter. Because I never want Emma to be left in a cold basement thinking that if she doesn’t lie there and take it, some guy won’t love her. Everything in life is a choice.<br /><br />Today, I choose to get up out of bed, to care for myself and my family, to love my husband and to thank God that I lived through all those cold dark evenings to see the morning.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1123986721362724232005-08-13T22:30:00.000-04:002005-08-13T22:32:01.366-04:00auntie barbaraDear Heidi & Shelly,<br /><br />The news of your mom’s passing left me with a heavy heart. I understand she had been ill for some time, but this does not lessen your loss. I spent much of Friday thinking about “Auntie Barbara” and shared the many memories I have of her with my own children. Nikolas is familiar with my Auntie Barbara stories, in which your mom has been transformed into a type of superhero. One of his favorites involves Auntie Barbara racing about town in her little Carmen Gia, her auburn hair whipping about her face, adjusting her lipstick in the rearview mirror, on her way to retrieve candy stolen from children on Halloween night. In this particular story Auntie Barbara recovers the stolen candy to the town’s children and is hailed as a town hero.<br /><br />This morning I told Emma all the things that I loved best about Barbara. To me she was pure fun and glamour. I loved her lipstick kisses, the way her perfume enveloped me when she hugged me, the heel on her shoe that seemed way too thin and precarious to hold anything more than a feather, her purse always filled with gum and candy, the way her laugh seemed to fill an empty room. I recall one train trip to Toronto in which Barbara indulged my every request for cokes and salt and vinegar chips. I remember sitting next to her, watching her read a magazine, peeking into her purse at her lipstick. She caught my eye and reached in her bag for the lipstick and with flawless execution; she reapplied her lipstick perfectly without a mirror. To my great joy, she turned to me and applied a slight amount to my lips. “Isn’t this fun,” she smiled to me. For me it was Heaven.<br /><br />I can’t begin to imagine your loss, but I want you to know the memory of your mom will last forever in my heart and mind. My family has yet to spend a single day on a beach without sharing a Barbara story. There is something about being up north and near a beach that will call to mind stories about her. So much of my summers spent up north involve both of you and your mom. Evenings in the cottage are still spent with someone saying, “remember the time Barbara fed all the baby carrots to Molly,” our mutt of a dog that we dragged up to a cottage. Barbara always felt a kinship with dogs and was determined that all of their hardships should be rewarded with “treats” like coffee cake and ice cream. I see pictures of all of us at the Oak Grove Lodge and I long for those long summer days and endless nights, where music mixed with the grown up’s laughter. <br /><br />There are so many things I will miss about your mom. As a little girl, she was everything I loved about being a grown up. I so wanted to have her elegant hands, finger polish matching her toes. I always felt special when she would say to me, car keys jingling in her hands, “ok kid, let’s go buy some chocolate.” Her mere presence excited me. Whenever she visited our home, her voice would float out from the kitchen, where she would be sampling Herb’s cooking, insisting she just wanted a “nibble.” Everything around her seemed to be charged with electricity. To me, she always seemed so full of life. This is what I will remember about your mom. <br /><br />I loved her dearly and I will miss her terribly. I will continue to share Auntie Barbara stories with my children not only because they will remind me of my own childhood, but also because I simply treasure these memories so much.<br /><br />Please accept my deepest sympathies for this tremendous loss.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1123986607164319422005-08-13T22:21:00.000-04:002005-08-13T22:30:07.166-04:00fridayit is a beautiful day. the sky is streaked with pink and grey clouds. the tall green and brown grass bend in the breeze. i stare out at the lake and sip cold orange pop. the thick sweetness glides down my throat making my stomach ache. the children bring rocks from the lakes for me to observe. a flat black one shaped like a boomerang, a red one in the shape of a star, a green one with yellow freckles that looks like lizard skin. these treasures collect in the yellow bucket and will dutifully be driven home by me. each rock holding a special place in the kid's hearts. <br /><br />nik squints into the sky watching a seagull scream across the lake. he turns to me with a huge smile on his face. "this is the life, mom." then, seeing the sadness on my face, stops smiling. this upsets me because i want him to know that even when their is sadness around you it is still ok to have some sense of joy, too. it is ok to smile.<br /><br />emma stays close to me all day. she catches me crying while i am cooking bacon. she thinks i am upset because she keeps stealing the bacon off the plate before it has cooled off. i assure her that my tears are not over the stolen bacon. although, i wish they were.<br /><br />i feel a giant hole in my heart. a person i loved very much has died. i am sad.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1123986047875460612005-08-13T22:20:00.000-04:002005-08-13T22:20:47.876-04:00thursdayThe clouds blow away and out comes the sun. we walk up the road and stand on the railroad tracks. Nik bravely walks the tracks ready to greet a train head-on. Emma is more hesitant, convinced that I will not tell them if a train is coming. I assure her this is not the case. She looks at me full of doubt. She is always doubting me. She second guesses me at every turn.<br /><br />Later I watch my son swim in the lake. He has spent so much time in the water I think he has grown gills. He leads emma around the lake on a boogey board. Emma screams with glee and nik smiles back at her. I love watching them enjoy each other. I will remind myself of this moment when they bicker and argue later. They are finally arriving at a time in which they actually play with each other. I love to overhear their conversations in which they are planning a game and spelling out the rules for each other. I hear them being kind and supportive to each other’s ideas. I am amazed at the way they are able to resolve their conflicts.<br /><br />My dark mood has lifted and dan and I agree that Wednesday would be the one odd day we have during each vacation. Nothing bad has to happen, it is just a day in which you feel out of sorts. We spend the rest of this glorious day peacefully with each other. Only arguing amongst ourselves for the bathroom.<br /><br />Later that night I look at dan while he sleeps, amazed that he has chosen me to share his life. How I ever got so lucky I will never know. I thank my lucky stars and kiss dan’s nose.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1123985991919577322005-08-13T22:19:00.000-04:002005-08-13T22:19:51.920-04:00wednesdayThunderstorms greeted me this morning. This did nothing to improve my mood. For some reason I am having great difficulty in pushing the dark clouds from my head. Emma and I are acting like unfriendly cats all day. Tears and anger fill the cottage. All is better late in the day after a nap. Emma crawls into bed next to me, smelling like sleep, full of regret. My tears wet her shoulder and I ask for her forgiveness. We promise each other that tomorrow will be better.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1123985928979601752005-08-13T22:18:00.000-04:002005-08-13T22:18:48.980-04:00tuesdayI linger over my book while sitting in the lake in my chair. The waves push me back and forth, threatening to soak my book. I don’t want to finish this book. I have enjoyed it so much. Whenever I read a well-written book I hate to finish. I desperately want to know what becomes of these characters. Will everything turn out? Will she move to India? Will he ever find someone to love him? But in the end I finish the book. The last 10 pages took me over an hour. Only when I have finished a book do I turn to the back jacket in search of an author’s photograph. I study their face; as if I will be able to see why they write the way they do, what their inspiration might be. None, if any, of my questions are ever answered.<br /><br />Mostly I see the back of Emma today. Her hair is growing more and more blonde each day. Every now and then she turns her face and her profile makes my chest tighten. I remember stroking her soft nose while she slept in my arms. Staring for hours at her profile trying to understand this amazing little creature. <br /><br />As I bob in the lake, Nik swims out to me. He is fearless in the water, or at least, wants me to think he is fearless in the water. “Watch this!” I tell him how amazing he is and what great progress he is making with his strokes. Then I impress the hell out of him when, after several failed attempts, I succeed in performing a handstand in the water. He swims over to me and says, “that was totally awesome, momma!” I swell with pride. It isn’t often that I knock his socks off. Usually it is me that is left feeling impressed with the ease at which he moves through his life. I am left speechless at the careless way in which I am being discarded in his life. I secretly relish the moments in which he still needs me. In which, I am the sole comfort to him. The quiet moments I have alone talking in his bed carry me through the days in which he seems to abandon me completely. At times, he is still my little boy and likes it when I remind him of this fact. I like it, too.Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1123985857273882902005-08-13T22:16:00.000-04:002005-08-13T22:17:37.280-04:00mondayI sit and gaze out on the lake. Such a feeling of peace fills me. My cup runeth over. I watch my Emma run up and down the shoreline, playing tag with the waves. Her blond curls dance in the wind and one of her shoulder straps slips off revealing her perfect tan lines. I watch the waves push the rocks over my toes, occasionally nestling small rocks between my toes. I reach down and pull up a handful of color, red, blue, grey rocks tumble out of my hand, returned to the lake.<br /><br />Emma plays with a piece of seaweed that gets tangled around my chair as I sit in the lake reading. Or rather, attempting to read. My kids continually thwart these attempts with, “Mom! Watch this!” Emma names her seaweed companion “George.” Emma and George play a game that involves lots of running and yelling and Emma saying, “Oh my gosh, George! That was close!”<br /><br />As I sink lower and lower into the lake by the rocking power of the waves, my legs start to float. I find myself feeling weightless. What a wonderful feeling. I give up on reading and swim in the warm green water. How refreshing. I glide along, allowing the gentle push of the waves to carry me along. I am tiny and alone facing out on the lake. A moment of calm. I turn and look to the shore to find my little brown berries playing on the beach. Nik is full of smiles continually jumping in and out of the water. Emma is running this way and that, talking all the time. What pure joy!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1118350677123007662005-06-09T16:56:00.000-04:002005-06-09T16:57:57.130-04:00bits and piecesStanding in the shower at the gym I hear a woman practicing her scales. Over and over again her voice echoes down the brown tiled hallway, in perfect pitch, rising and falling over the notes. I am amazed when I witness someone able to do something so effortlessly. I dawdle in the shower listening and smiling at the ease at which she performs this relatively routine task. The comfort of this moment is collapses around me when I am greeted at the lockers by a woman who chooses not to wear any clothing in the locker room. The idea of politely covering yourself out of respect for people around you is completely lost on this woman. I don’t care if the body is worth looking at, I don’t need to see it. I extend my “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy to my body as well as other strangers. How this woman had the ability to talk to me about anything while standing there completely naked is beyond me. Keeping my eyes well above neck level did not prevent me from taking in this woman, or rather piece of “body art” in all her glory. Piercings in a place that make me shudder to think about, with metal studs no less. I suddenly felt a headache coming on and left without drying my hair. <br /><br />I am sitting outside in a lawn chair watching my son play catch with his father. Dan has been waiting for this moment since Nik was born. The idea of having a son as our firstborn brought up all these “movie-inspired” moments for Dan having a “game of catch with his boy in the yard.” Now the dream is realized. Dan is beside himself. He glows with pride, not only at the strength of Nik’s throwing arm, but also that the incredible creature tossing him the football with exact precision is actually his son.<br /><br />Emma and I sit on the back step and “chat” as I paint her nails. Red rose for her fingernails and Supreme Blush Pink for her toenails. Emma chatters on about her 7 sisters who live in Mexico and ride horses and I think about how I want to bottle this moment and keep it for a lifetime. I wonder if Emma will remember these moments. When I ask her “what was the best part about today?” she often will recall quiet, simple moments that involve her making her own jelly sandwich or helping me fold the towels or laying under the dining room table talking about the ball she was to be attending later that evening and the beautiful dress she would be wearing. <br /><br />The children are reaching ages where they entertain themselves. And for the most part, their choices aren’t harmful to themselves, household pets, or our property. I am finally getting a chance to sit back and watch them experience their childhoods. What a time!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7781440.post-1117313280935745892005-05-28T16:47:00.000-04:002005-05-28T16:48:00.940-04:00a little ray of sunshine....There are some reasons to smile lately:<br /><br />When noticing how much our hosta has grown outside, Emma said, “look mom, look how your penne pasta has grown!”<br /><br />Nik writing me little love notes and leaving them around the house for me to find.<br /><br />Nik receiving his first love letter in the mail this weekend.<br /><br />The color my face turns when I am working out at the gym.<br /><br />The addition of new fish in the fish tank.<br /><br />The last week of preschool!<br /><br />New scent in my laundry detergent.<br /><br />The love of Cooper.<br /><br />Other people being on the receiving end of complete bullshit, rather than me.<br /><br />Freedom to move and think without being bothered.<br /><br />Caller ID.<br /><br />Day lilies, day lilies, day lilies, day lilies, day lilies!!!!<br /><br />Emma patting me on the backside and saying, “Mamma’s little butt.”<br /><br />Painting Emma’s toenails pink and red.<br /><br />Nik’s newfound sense of privacy when using the bathroom.<br /><br />Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel.<br /><br />Venti Chai!Pale Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06515015091326570313noreply@blogger.com0