Monday, February 22, 2010

Insane in the mom brain

Some days it gets really, really close to me doing something seriously crazy ... like booking the most expensive room in the most expensive hotel I can find here in Seattle. Then just leaving for the night.

Pronunciation: \ˈtäd-lər, ˈtä-dəl-ər\Function: noun
Date: 1793
: one that toddles; especially : a young child
— tod·dler·hood \-ˌhu̇d\ noun

Sounds so simple, doesn't it? Obviously, Webster and/or Merriam were men.

Some days with my little family are ... the days where I'm finally going pee after six hours of needing to go, and Butterfly's banging on the door while screaming at the top of her lungs because I won't let her in, then when my heart can't take it, I let her in, then I start thinking about how there's no me left in me or I am a woman buried so deeply down I won't ever find myself again, and I don't even have my own room and that's why I get so frustrated when Elephant creatively dissassembles my freshly made bed and I snap at him though I've vowed to be more patient, and so then I'm not only sitting on the pot comforting a snot-coated, red-faced, aggrieved baby, I'm now a snot-coated, red-faced, aggrieved adult ...

And the little scary parts start to surface, those questions, questions, worries. I describe it as akin to patting your pockets before you set out the door, ensuring you haven't forgotten something. Only my pocket-patting is mental and boils down to: "If I think this, does this mean I'm on the way to being like my mother after all?" (Sometimes I worry it means I'm going to be like my dad, but he's still here, he didn't abandon my sister and I when we were babies, so becoming him is a bit more forgiveable.)

I'm always looking for a reason why my mom left, though I don't blame myself like I used to (which is a serious bitch ... a child blaming herself for an adult's actions). While I want to believe it's because she's just insane and stupid, some part of me is on precarious patrol, alert to the emergence of a genetic link. I don't WANT to be like her. So how to explain/justify those days when I want to flee?

But ... As I'm picturing myself in a hot tub miles above my beautiful twinkling-at-night city, lush robe at the ready and a fantastic bed all to myself, room service just a tap on the phone away ... the sweet smell of my daughter's hair rises, pulling me back to my senses. Her little arms are holding me as tightly as they possibly can. My son knocks gently on the door, quietly letting me know he's put the bed back together. And when I finally wipe the last tear away and emerge from the bathroom, he's still there, because he wants to hug me and tell me he's sorry.

So ... I realize how sad I would be to be alone in a stunning hotel above the city.

To be experiencing something so fun without my children.

1 comment:

  1. Love this. I hope you publish it somewhere in print too - it should be on a magazine page.