Honesty

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A blog is kind of like slipping your skin off and then standing, naked, while everyone judges you. Of course, as the writer I get to choose how much or how little I tell the world. I’ve always tended to tell TOO much to people outside of the computer, and that’s what I brought to the blog as well.
This last year, year and a half, has been hell on my family. And at first, I was blithely writing exactly what was happening, because no one read it anyway. But then someone did, and they left extremely mean comments. In a fit of humiliation and depression, I deleted all the posts that were incriminating, that I felt were more personal and I shouldn’t share. But that meant that everything that was going on in my life was forbidden territory.
So where do you draw the line? Where do I draw the line? I want to be as honest as I can, because isn’t that what blogging is all about? But I feel like I need to protect both myself and my family. It’s a double edged sword. Some bloggers do this so eloquently, so expertly weaving their lives into something that everyone can relate to. I want to be one of those bloggers, but it scares me. My feelings are easily hurt.
Let me know what you think. When is it too much?

Talking

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My husband had been out of work for a while, and he was getting really discouraged. I can’t tell you how many resumes we sent out and no one was calling back. But finally, through a temp service, he found a job. He is so happy and keeps telling me how much better he feels, now that he’s contributing.
After I pick Cole up and everyone is home, I make sure Cole has a drink and he watches cartoons for a while, and I have one of my favorite things with my husband. No, not that! We meet in the kitchen and talk about our days. It’s not much, just five or ten minutes before we have to go and do something else, or Cole needs dinner, or whatever, but those spare minutes we spend reconnecting are some of the highlights of my day. We used to do this in our old house and I had missed it, and yesterday my husband said, “It’s so nice to be talking about our days again!” Seems so simple, but it gives us a chance to wind down after work. If one of us had something happen, be it good or bad, we share it with each other. We may go over schedules, what we’re doing in the next couple days, etc. What’s important is the talking. As the light dims a little and the kitchen becomes shadowy, my husband and I find each other again, every evening.
It is very nice, indeed.

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I have told Cole over and over that he is to STOP growing up, and he continues to defy me. The other night he was eating a bagel and started complaining that his tooth hurt.
“Open up,” I told him, and peered into his mouth. Sure enough, there was a very loose baby tooth in there and behind it, already almost taller than the other tooth, was a huge grown up tooth. It looked out of place in my baby’s mouth.
He immediately started sobbing.
“No, no!” I told him. “This is good news, buddy, it means you’re growing up. AND the tooth fairy will come and leave you money once you lose that tooth and put it under your pillow.”
I attempted to wiggle the tooth and Cole freaked out even more. He screamed at me not to touch it, don’t touch it! So that tooth may be in his mouth forever, who knows. He certainly won’t let Adam or me touch it.
You guys, I’m not READY for him to have real teeth! I look at those tiny baby teeth and think about the excitement (and fever) that came when they first poked through his gums. I think of my sweet little baby and it just makes me a little sad. Of course I’m excited for all the new phases to come, but this was just like a little nudge to remind me that it’s going by so fast.
That night at bedtime I held him for an extra long minute. I told him how much I love him and how big he is getting, and how proud I am for the boy he’s turning into. He hugged me back and told me not to touch his tooth. Ever.
Maybe I don’t need to be sad, because it may be that he will have that tooth for the rest of time.

Good Things

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I tend to write more when my life feels like it’s spinning out of control and lately… well… I don’t even know if I want to say it out loud but *whispers* things have been going okay. Sshhh, don’t tell the universe.

I always tell my therapist that I don’t want to talk about the good stuff, because I don’t want to jinx it. Her famous line back to me is “Do you REALLY think that you’re that important to the universe?” Of course, my answer is yes, I DO think I’m that important… but seriously, I have always been like that, not wanting to ruin something by spilling it to other people. Obviously me spewing all of my problems all over the world isn’t so much of a problem, but the good things? Calm things, things that don’t tie my stomach in knots, things that don’t wake me up at night… those things are not to be talked about! So I’m taking a major step in saying that things are going okay, and I’ll probably go home to find the house is caved in or something.

Writing is my healing process, and I guess when I don’t have that much going on I tend to back off. I will try and remember to post about the good things too, like how Cole is growing up before my eyes and becoming such a wonderful and caring little boy, or how my husband has been extra loving AND did the sinkful of dishes that I thought were waiting for me when I got home, or that my apartment is wonderful and I will never take having my own home for granted ever, ever again.

But seriously… you didn’t hear this from me.

I Scream, You Scream…

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We all know that I love the stuffing out of my son.  He is the light of my life, blah blah blah, all that mushy stuff. That being said, sometimes the kid is so weird that I don’t know where he came from.

Last night we got ice cream as a treat to have after dinner.  We all ate our food and then Cole asked for desert.  My husband presented the ice cream with a flourish.  And…. Cole proceeded to have a complete and utter meltdown because THE ICE CREAM WAS TOO COLD!  He whined about the coldness, he told us it would “hurt” him to eat the ice cream, he implored us to put the ice cream in the microwave because that heats “stuff up and then my ice cream would be eatable!”  At one point he flung himself onto the rug and begged the world at large to tell him why his dad had thought that ice cream would be a good idea. 

We told him not to eat the ice cream, if it was that big of a deal.  That brought on a fresh round of tears, because it was HIS ice cream and he WANTED it, just not COLD. Eventually he took a tiny, miniscule bite of the ice cream.  By the look on his face, you would have thought that he ate actual dirt.  He nodded his head, eyes closed, and carefully placed the spoon back in the bowl.

“It’s good,” he said, “but it IS cold.  I don’t want any more.”

And then my head exploded, because no child of mine would EVER turn down ice cream.  

I Can!

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My whole life people have been telling me what I CAN’T do.  Some examples that come to mind:

When I told my family that I was going to apply to be a waitress, the laughter and guffaws could be heard for miles.  I was told I was way too lazy to wait on people, I would drop trays all over the restaurant, I would cry and get my feelings hurt… the list went on and on.  I went on to be a waitress for about five years.

When I told people that I would take a year off school and then go back, they scoffed.  No one ever goes back, I was told.  You’ll find a full time job and you’ll be making money and you’ll never want to go back.  I worked for a year, reapplied to college, and went back for another two years.

When I told people that I was going to be a home health aide, again, the laughter.  I was told it was way too gross of a job for me, I would hate it, people are mean, etc.  And guess what?  They were right, all except for the me not being able to do it part.  I was puked, pooped, and spit on.  I was yelled at and accused of any number of ridiculous things.  But I was a home health aide for about four years.

Now a new job has come up at my place of employment, and I would really, really like to get it.  People have told me that I am not right for the job, I won’t like it, I’m used to sitting behind a desk… but I still applied yesterday.  I’m hoping that whoever interviews me has as much faith in my ability to do a good job as I am, because I really think I would be damn good at this position. And if I don’t get it, well, I’ll know it’s not because I CAN’T do it.  No matter what people say!    

Aside

When I was pregnant with Cole, a lot of people gave me lots of nice stuff.  One of the things was a handmade, stitched Pooh blanket.  It came from my employer; I took care of her elderly mother and she signed my paychecks.  But she loved to sew and quilt, and gave me the Pooh blanket right before I gave birth.  You know when you have a baby they have a million blankets, and I would take one out of his drawer and cover him up, not thinking anything about it. But somewhere along the line, the Pooh blanket became *special.* 

You see, there is a very specific ritual of blanket tucking in before bed.  We put the sheet and comforter on first, followed by the Cars fleece blanket, another sports blanket on the side, and then the Pooh blanket over top of everything.  While he is falling asleep, Cole will rub the edge of the blanket in between his fingers.  If he is feeling tired or in need of comfort, a rub from the Pooh blanket will help a lot.  He’s been sleeping with this blanket arrangement for at least three years, and the Pooh one since birth. 

So the other day when he wanted to take the blanket to my MIL because he was still a little sleepy in the morning, I said sure.  And it was fine and we went on with our day, until bedtime, when I realized….

I HAD FORGOTTEN TO BRING HOME THE POOH BLANKET.

The world stopped.  Tears were shed, on both of our faces.  I felt horrible.  Bad mommy moment, that one.  I apologized profusely, and he, pitifully, through his sad sobs, said, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”  That was even more sad than forgetting the blanket, the fact that he was taking it so stoically and reasurring me.  Oh, I felt so bad.  We made a (poor) substitute with another blanket, but we all know that it wasn’t the same.  His fingers were just itching for that blanket.  So today as soon as I get off work I will be going to retrieve the blanket, and the world should be back in alignment before bedtime. 

Never, never forget the blanket at bedtime.  Never.