You're a good mother and wife.
No matter what anyone says.
Fun to think about. Fun to know that somewhere someone said it.
No, no it isn't fun.
I hate having heard it. I hate having it told to me. I tell it to myself over and over and over again throughout every day. Work so hard to undo the whatever was done to qualify as a not good mother and wife. If all the toilets are clean. If my husband gains weight. Learns to think for himself. Smile without my approval. Decide without my input. If my children are cultured enough. Busy with extracurricular activities, but not too busy. If I attend and serve at the right fit for us church. If my appearance is kept up without being vain. If the meals I make are made at home. With love. Without breaking the 5,837 nutritional fads that run through you every other week. If I refrain from teaching them Spanish because you read somewhere...
Like I could teach them if I wanted to.
But no, I'm not THAT ethnic. Not THAT Mexican.
But I am.
I am made up of contradictions. Left-brained, Right-brained in the one tiny me.
Fail to leap and leave the nest. But a nest is what I have. A home built up by hard work. Such hard work. Now able to pull myself up by the reachable furniture. Now able to shimmy to the next piece of furniture. Just barely. Without falling kerplunk. But I'm falling and falling all day long.
I wish the boys wouldn't fight.
That means I'm a bad mom.
Your boys never fought. So I'm not as awesome as you at this thing. Maybe if I left the house to work. Maybe if I had more room to separate them. To segregate them. To alienate them. Create small universes around each one to build them up separately. Completely. Into men that are separate. Completely.
If I make this homemade thing will I be as good as you? If I learn this new skill? Cook this pre-approved meal?
It got lost somewhere. My ganas. My me-ness. That one that was vocal and loud and ornery when nudged. That one that believed because it felt right. That didn't sway and look to see if what I believed or read or said or made or admired or wore or dressed the others in caused a smirk of approval or disdain. What's an appropriate word for having _____? Gumption? Confidence? Pride? Assurance?
That. That thing that left me.
After the stretch marks? The failure of oneness? The work of it all? Where's that feeling of accomplishment? Do I allow you to steal it all from me? I allow you to steal it from me. Not the outside force of your meanness and judgement, but that nagging, bragging, self destructive self.
O, that self.
O the me.
But I'd like to be mad. I'd like to tell you just how mad. I'd like to be able to stop stopping myself from saying the things that I think in the secret place of my self. All the mean and smart and funny and not funny and meaningless and encrypted things that I hold back and stop from escaping me. Wanna let them out and allow that sting of a smack to kiss your cheek.
Why say the thing that makes you feel better about yourself to me? Why say that thing that makes you so happy to not be me to me? Should shut up that spout before it stings my sensitive self. My ever grieving self. My full of myself to overfilling self.
o the me.
No matter what anyone says.
Fun to think about. Fun to know that somewhere someone said it.
No, no it isn't fun.
I hate having heard it. I hate having it told to me. I tell it to myself over and over and over again throughout every day. Work so hard to undo the whatever was done to qualify as a not good mother and wife. If all the toilets are clean. If my husband gains weight. Learns to think for himself. Smile without my approval. Decide without my input. If my children are cultured enough. Busy with extracurricular activities, but not too busy. If I attend and serve at the right fit for us church. If my appearance is kept up without being vain. If the meals I make are made at home. With love. Without breaking the 5,837 nutritional fads that run through you every other week. If I refrain from teaching them Spanish because you read somewhere...
Like I could teach them if I wanted to.
But no, I'm not THAT ethnic. Not THAT Mexican.
But I am.
I am made up of contradictions. Left-brained, Right-brained in the one tiny me.
Fail to leap and leave the nest. But a nest is what I have. A home built up by hard work. Such hard work. Now able to pull myself up by the reachable furniture. Now able to shimmy to the next piece of furniture. Just barely. Without falling kerplunk. But I'm falling and falling all day long.
I wish the boys wouldn't fight.
That means I'm a bad mom.
Your boys never fought. So I'm not as awesome as you at this thing. Maybe if I left the house to work. Maybe if I had more room to separate them. To segregate them. To alienate them. Create small universes around each one to build them up separately. Completely. Into men that are separate. Completely.
If I make this homemade thing will I be as good as you? If I learn this new skill? Cook this pre-approved meal?
It got lost somewhere. My ganas. My me-ness. That one that was vocal and loud and ornery when nudged. That one that believed because it felt right. That didn't sway and look to see if what I believed or read or said or made or admired or wore or dressed the others in caused a smirk of approval or disdain. What's an appropriate word for having _____? Gumption? Confidence? Pride? Assurance?
That. That thing that left me.
After the stretch marks? The failure of oneness? The work of it all? Where's that feeling of accomplishment? Do I allow you to steal it all from me? I allow you to steal it from me. Not the outside force of your meanness and judgement, but that nagging, bragging, self destructive self.
O, that self.
O the me.
But I'd like to be mad. I'd like to tell you just how mad. I'd like to be able to stop stopping myself from saying the things that I think in the secret place of my self. All the mean and smart and funny and not funny and meaningless and encrypted things that I hold back and stop from escaping me. Wanna let them out and allow that sting of a smack to kiss your cheek.
Why say the thing that makes you feel better about yourself to me? Why say that thing that makes you so happy to not be me to me? Should shut up that spout before it stings my sensitive self. My ever grieving self. My full of myself to overfilling self.
o the me.
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