June 2004 Archives

My Kids Love Me

By mandy on June 3, 2004 4:00 PM | 3 Comments | No TrackBacks

Cleaning today I found a pink envelope addressed to me. A beautiful princess was drawn on the front by a six year old and labeled with an arrow, "You". Inside was this letter:

"Dear Mom, I hope you have a happy Mothers day. And you are verry preety with your glasss on or off there both verry preety
[drawing of an eye] + [heart] + U = I love you"

Okay, admittedly, I'm struggling to keep my emotions in check these days, but tears well to my eyes once again. I am SO blessed, am I not? I have three wonderful children who love me. I should be more grateful.

Like a Bandaid

By mandy on June 3, 2004 1:21 PM | 3 Comments | No TrackBacks

I think I break up the way I pull off bandaids--slowly and painfully. Tug a little--OUCH! Tug a little more--OUCH! Pause. Tug--OW! Rethink this. Maybe I should just leave it alone, let it go on its own. In between pulling I work myself up, think braggartly and bravely, I can do this, ready go! Tug--OUCH! Forget it, it's okay. No, no it isn't okay, do it. Just do it, all at once. Tug harder and longer--OUCH! I will get it done eventually, but it's going to be long, drawn out, and painful.

and then he comes home for lunch and it's the same sweet routine as most days take: first thing upon coming home is always my rushing to meet him, him taking me into his arms and holding me close. I fix him a lunch, brew his coffee. We talk. Maybe we'll go out this weekend with that cute Chinese girl from work and her boyfriend. That'd be great, I say. He lays down for a nap and we spoon, his body and arms wrapped around me. He dozes off. Now it's nearing time to go, so we get up, but shortly lay down again, his head in my lap, me kissing his ears, the side of face, stroking his hair. He doesn't want to go back to work. Why don't you stay here with me all afternoon, lay in my lap, let me hold you, I say. You can sleep until you're well-rested and wake to a hot dinner and fresh made cookies, just for you. Maybe pie. Yes, he says, he wants that more than anything, but we both know it can't really be, and he gets up to leave. I fix his coffee, and we embrace some more. He holds me, I wrap my arms around his neck, we kiss. I kiss his forehead and say, "Bless you". He smiles and walks out the door. I stand in the doorway and watch him leave. He waves as he drives away and I wipe tears away.

Writing

By mandy on June 2, 2004 7:16 PM | 2 Comments | No TrackBacks

Here's something I've written. This isn't me, mind you.

She sat on the bathroom mat that smelled of urine because of her four year old son, who never seemed to have bladder problems anywhere else, never at his dad's. She sat with her chin resting on her pajama clad knees, arms hugging her, face ensconced in strings of wet hair. Dripping, dripping. The sobs subsided, all she could hear was her own heartbeat, her breaths, the sound her pajamas made as she rocked back and forth. Maybe that was the problem-- there was too much of her in the world. Even when she heard her kids, it was only in how their staying up too late inconvenienced her. "Didn't I tell you to go to sleep?" she had yelled. The bath faucet dripped. There was no toilet paper to silence her sniffles. What had the kids done with the toilet paper? She had just bought some. Do they think she's made out of money? Was a shower in peace too much to ask? She looked up at the closed door and couldn't bring herself to open it. She controlled the door.

I'm Sorry

By mandy on June 1, 2004 2:51 PM | 3 Comments | No TrackBacks

I came home straight from school at 11:20 and took the shower I should have taken before I went to class, then set about fixing something for TNG for lunch, a pasttime I enjoy. I didn't have enough time before his arrival so I set the table with fixings for sandwiches, a baked potato and some potato chips and brewed the fresh coffee he'd need for survival at work. Meager, I know, so I whipped up some dessert: banana halves sauteed in butter, brown sugar, and amaretto liquer, topped with a homemade chocolate sauce (whipped cream, butter, sugar, chocolate). I found myself worried and apologetic that I didn't have the dishes done already or the car unpacked or the house picked up by noon when he came home. As if he cared--of course, he didn't. But I got to thinking--how many times have I come home from school, work, or both to find he'd been home an entire day and done nothing around the house? Why am I so worried about "pulling my weight" around the house when I'm home? Would someone tell me what on earth my problem is?

I tell myself many things in response. For one, I remember the times I've told myself if a guy would work and support me I'd be happy to do most of the housework in exchange. (Note: This isn't exactly the case on either end.) I tell myself the person who is home and not working should do most of the housework, and that currently, with only one class and no employment, it's not too much for me to do a lot of housework. I tell myself he does help out some, that he's a man and thus not "supposed" to do housework, that it's my house and thus not his responsibility, that he's not accustomed to doing a lot of housework and I need to give it more time, that he's worked all day, that's he's tired...

And then I just feel bad for whining, for feeling sorry for myself, for demanding more. Overwhelmingly I feel bad for not just handling the housework better, by myself, and being more cheerful about it. I want to apologize to TNG again for not doing better and keeping the house cleaner for him. I'm sorry.

And this is the way I handle everything in our relationship, from finances to friendship. I'm sorry.

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