A Smaller Tush

I'm really unhappy with my body.  Even more, I'm really unhappy that I'm not doing anything to make my body better.

And I'm shocked to discover that at 44 (just had a birthday) I'd be willing to trade some IQ points for a better physical shell.  How shallow is that?!  Or maybe it's just a reflection of how lazy I am. Either way, it's not good,  because as mentioned in an earlier post, this aging thing is harder than it looks.

As time plods forward, there's no turning that clock back.  And maintaining an attractive physical exterior becomes more and more difficult - I've never liked to exersize and although I don't overeat, what I do eat is not necessarily green.  (However, let it be said that my reputation as a junk-fooder is somewhat overstated.)

So, how important is it to understand algebra or be able to manage multiple tasks?  I think I could give up some of this unnecessary smarty-pantness for a small tush in some stupider pants.  Who do I see about this?  Come on - I didn't ask for these genetics.  With all due respect to my Eastern European peasant ancestors (who likely longed for longer legs too), I think I should have a say in how my "gifts" are distributed.

I'm just sayin'.

I am (Half) Evil

I've written some about my mother (we'll call her "Weakness"), but now to the Father (let's call him "Evil").

He's half my DNA.  That's undeniable.  He's probably mentally ill (sociopath is my guess).  And he's my Daddy.  People are shocked to hear the story - handsome, charming, smart; mean, violent, mysogenistic. 

But what does it mean to me now?  I'm not the little girl who craves his attention and approval (or am I?).  I'm a grown adult whose primary identity is Mommy, but it's a short trip back to remember the pain of being the progeny of a "bad guy" (that's how I've described him to my kids so as to give them instant clarity of why he's not around).

A recent funeral sent me spinning.  The corpse was a beloved father whose adult children spoke of him with admiration, respect, love and a touch of fear.  The girl child spoke movingly of her gratitude of having her father for some 30 years.  I leaned by head against the wall, closed my eyes and thought, "you are damn lucky."  My shit of a father still lives and hasn't earned a morsel of pain from me at the thought of his death. I do not plan to weep when he goes (and it should be painful and soon, please) for I've wept too much for him already.

Christianity encourages forgiveness, but something I really like about my Jewish faith is the tenet that the wronged are not obligated to forgive until it is righteously sought by the wrong-doer.  Even then, the wronged is not obligated to forgive if not so inclined until, the Rabbis say, the third time absolution is sought.  And let's just say this - it's never been sought and it never will be.  He's not capable of it; not deep enough, not introspective enough, not man enough. And thank god 'cause I don't think I could forgive him now anyway.

And I don't think my anger and bitterness hurts me one damn bit either.  It reminds me how not to be, gives me compassion for victims, and it's probably a big part of the good that's inside of me.  But in the end, I am half evil.

I do agree with Einstein

Someone I admire a lot says that parenthood is bittersweet, because it's a lifelong process of separation.  And I agree.

Pregnancy, difficult though it was, was the last time I knew my children were really safe - and, of course, even that's a false safety.  Let's say this:  I knew exactly where they were.

Then they are outside of your body and trying to get away.  Testing boundaries, pulling you close and pushing you back.  And you are at their mercy.

Now, walking/talking/reading - that's all behind us and it's the BIG separations that loom.  Three weeks of sleep-away camp is the longest we've been physically apart, but the emotional gap continues to grow.  As it should.  I brought them here, but they don't belong to me.  I am the conduit for them to find themselves and their own lives.  But, ouch.

Einstein said, "A mother is to be left."  Sometimes the truth sucks.

Me and Guns

I'm more excited than I should be to be mentioned in the following article on Betty Confidential: http://www.bettyconfidential.com/ar/ld/a/moms-who-eat-their-words.html?pageID=1!

You're sooo Cynical

cyn⋅i⋅cal

  [sin-i-kuhl]  –adjective

1.	like or characteristic of a cynic; distrusting or disparaging the motives of others.

2.	showing contempt for accepted standards of honesty or morality by one's actions, esp. by actions that exploit the scruples of others.

3.

bitterly or sneeringly distrustful, contemptuous, or pessimistic. Who me? It's said often enough that I should probably just cop to it, but it somehow seems connected to my idealism.  With such high hopes, how could I not be distrusting, contemptuous, bitter and pessimistic? The world is indeed an ugly place.  People are awful - truly.  But it's also amazingly beautiful and people can be transcendently good.  It's hard to bring all that together for me, and I guess I fall back on sarcasm.  It's a defense mechanism, but I think I continue to hope against all odds that I'll see more beauty and be open to the universe's many gifts (ack - I just gagged when I wrote that).

No, he's like ME

Parents spend a good deal of time trying to find the ways in which their children are like them or the other parent.  I think it's got something to do with immortality - hoping that we will live on in our children.

This week, BOTH of my boys had birthdays.  They're five years and one week apart which means that we just concentrate the birthday pain into one week per year. 

The older one had some friends for pizza and a movie.  When we went to the grocery store to get a cake, they didn't really have what he wanted.  After five minutes of wandering in the bakery section, I told him that we could go somewhere else to find what we had come for.  He said, "nah, let's just get something. It's easier."  OMG, that is so me!  (For the record, he picked some cookies that were really, really bad.)

The younger one is having some friends go to laser tag and play video games.  He's been talking about the cake for days - what kind of cake, the shape of the cake, what's on top of the cake, what kind of icing on the cake.  Every.  Detail.  He wants Daddy to make him a cake [like he's done in the past], but when I pull out a cake mix, he tells me that he doesn't want a cake MIX, he wants one from scratch and he wants MnM's on top in the shape of his initial.  OMG, that is so my husband!

I am an easy-going, go-with-the-flow gal married to a foodie.  We will live on.

Laugh or Cry

The line between fun and fear is oh so close.

Just ask my younger child:  He was dying to go on the Sea World roller coaster two years ago; sobbing as his older brother ran ahead laughing like an evil cartoon villian and our still too little hero ached to have his turn being jerked, splashed and wooshed.  As the evil villian returned soaking wet, the sniffling hero was almost as soaked from his own tears.

But this Summer, it was all different.  Mighty Mouse ran to the ride and stood under the deciding line smirking 'cause sure enough, he was about a 1/2 inch in the good.  Then, we all ran to the queue [which was thankfully short due to inclimate weather].  Jumping in the car, he pushed hard on the safety bar to make sure he didn't fly out and off we went.  He giggled and laughed and looked and questioned - it was everything we had wanted it to be.

Three minutes later, we jumped off.  Hooray!  'But wait' says the big brother, that line's soooo short; let's do it again.  YEAH says hero-boy.  Again, we jump in the car and push the safety bar down, but this time it's with a good deal of anxiety:  "Is it tight enough, Mom?"  and then come the tears and screams (not the good kind).  "It's not fun if you think you're going to DIE!!!" he says, but it's too late now.  And this time, it's not fun - for either of us.  He's crying; it's too scary; he never wants to do it again.

Yes, that line between fun and fear is oh so fine.  And sometimes, not knowing what to expect makes it tolerable, but the knowledge of what's to come can fill us with dread.  [I hear this same scenario is played out in the second sky-dive.]