The "New" Me

Yesterday, I couldn't bring myself to blog. I had, and still have, much to do to prepare for Easter. Easter has lots of "baggage" attached to it for me. Isn't that weird? The holiday all about rising from the ashes has baggage for me? Easter was the first time I met my ex-husband , sixteen years ago. I travelled out to Louisiana with my friend, his sister. She's the one who set us up. She thought we were perfect for one another. In the long run, she was mistaken. 

I was sifting through old photos yesterday and happened upon some copies of my senior picture. The copy to the left is the one I've kept in an album all this time. But the one on the right is the one my ex carried in his wallet all the years we were married. After Joe and I married,my ex husband took this photo out of his wallet and handed it to Joe. He said, "Well, she's yours now." 

I was inside with Logan, readying his things for a visit with his dad and didn't see this hand off but Joe told me about it later. He showed me the photo and I remember thinking, "Yep. Look how worn out and  broken the girl in that photo is..." I asked Joe if he planned to keep the photo in his wallet and he said that he would not. That he thought it would be better to just put it away somewhere. Maybe come back to it later. 

Well, it's been in a box all this time and yesterday, I happened upon it. I held it in my hand. I looked at it intently. And I thought long and hard about it. I don't know if you've noticed but in the post about Logan's birthday, I posted a photo of him, my ex....Larry. His name is Larry. I've never posted a photo or named him here before. I posted that photo and tried to feel the good in it. I've harbored resentment and anger all these years for what I believed was stolen from me. What was it? My youth? My innocence? My idealism? My optimism? My spirit? I don't know how to name it. All I know is that I came out of it different than I was before. I've always thought of our time together as wasted and ugly- a life of dysfunction and abusive tendencies. But it wasn't all wasted and it must have been a lesson meant for me to learn....

Now I choose to see the photo on the right as warmer with much more character than the first. A girl with scratches and scars but still carrying a smile on her face. I daresay she is even more beautiful than the first. 

That's all I have to say about that today.

Bad Mother

Yesterday, I could barely hold my head up. I was extraordinarily tired. I almost went home early but I didn't. Then, when I did get home, I fell asleep on the couch. Then my dad woke me up bringing the kids home. They're my kids so I expect them to come home but yesterday, I didn't want them to.

I settled them in the playroom with food and drink and TV and toys and went back to my sofa. I woke up moments later to them stampeding back and forth through the house. I asked them to stop. Then I yelled at them. Then they stopped and I went back to sleep. I could NOT stay awake and I was so nauseous when I did. Then Zoe was digging in my nose. I think I effectively slept through that but then Sam was running again. I stood up. I gave up. I sat back down. I went a little crazy.

At some point, Zoe started to call from the potty because she needed a dry pull-up. Sam threw something against something else in the playroom. I walked out there and yelled at him again. I told him to go to his room. He walked in front of me toward the hallway and I read him the riot act the entire time. Then, as if my very words picked him up and slammed him down, he tripped and hit his head on the door frame of the bathroom. And he hit it very hard. The next few minutes were just a blur of crying and hugging and rocking, on both our parts. Zoe wandered into the hall to help us and peed all over her legs in the process.

His forehead immediately turned blue and swelled. He's terrified of ice packs so there is really nothing to do when he hits his head. I offered him Tylenol but he refused. I apologized over and over but he just gave me that look. The look that tells you that things got pretty bad for a minute and someone should probably call DFACS. A few minutes later, Joe arrived home and came to our rescue. When we thought the crisis had passed, I went to bed. It was 7:30pm. I slept through the night but had disturbing dreams. I dreamt Sam was kidnapped. I fought and searched through the whole dream to rescue him and then when we finally found him, he was being cared for even better by them.

Guilt. I don't like it.

I woke him up by singing his special song this morning. I apologized again for speaking harshly and we made up. He gave me a big hug and showed me his "bad spot" on his head. It doesn't look so bad and he says it doesn't hurt unless he pokes it with his finger. I promised him we could make the Easter gingerbread house tonight. And he said that would be "just fine"...

I'm going to take his word for it.