Father

I mention my mom a lot. Both here, and in real life. My mom is an amazing, powerful, genuine, generous person. I love her. She saved my life. She's a wonderful grandmother to my Gumball. Really wonderful. Like most people, she occasionally hurts my feelings, and annoys me. I also wish she was the sort of grandmother who'd willingly watch Gumball for a full day, or a night, maybe every couple of months. That's just not her. Oh well. She's always here when I need her.

My mom isn't perfect. When my parents divorced, when I was a child, she lost custody of me. She allowed my father to take me out of the country to live. I went many years with very infrequent visits to my mom. I missed her in a horrible, constant way, but I was too afraid of my father to even ask to see more of her. I wasn't entirely miserable all the time I lived with my dad, but I was lonely and scared a lot. I had a life that seemed idyllic. Who wouldn't want to grow up in the Caribbean? Who wouldn't want to spend their days SCUBA diving, living in a tropical paradise, surrounded by Vervet monkeys, mangoes, and beaches? I had friends, and experiences that many people just dream about. I traveled throughout the Caribbean. But in my heart, I was one scared, lonely, sad, little kid. No one has ever been happier to go off to boarding school for high school. I left home when I was 14 and never went back.

Back to my mom. This is why I think she's the best person I've ever met. She has admitted, acknowledged, and apologized for every mistake she made, for letting me leave the country, for losing custody, for everything. Everyone makes mistakes. Even serious ones. It takes a strong, honest person to own up to those mistakes, and to offer restitution. I hope I can be a person like my mom.

Except for one brief, uncomfortable, unplanned encounter in Barnes and Noble in 2010, I haven't spoken to my father since 2000.

My father wasn't nice to me. When I think about him, and how he treated me, I pathologize and try to diagnose him. Something is wrong with him. Bipolar? Drug addict? Narcissistic Personality Disorder? Schizophrenic? Fucking insane? Yes. The last label always fits. He took a lot of my childhood, and ruined it. So many of my memories of childhood involve tears and screaming. Maybe someday I'll elaborate on the hell he put me through. Mostly though, it makes me too sad to share.

I got married in 2000. To a man who is, to this day, a close friend. He gave me strength, and when my father started one of his regular tirades about my flaws, faults, and general failings (real and imagined), I told him that I refused to be spoken to like this anymore. The end.

When I got pregnant, I knew my mom would play a huge role in my baby girl's life. I wondered if I was making a mistake by not patching things up with my father. I worried and fretted about it. Forgiveness is touted as the strongest, most soul-soothing action one can take. And when Gumball's dad left, I was so desperate for help that I considered calling my father. He would have helped me. For whatever his "help" is worth. I don't think he's an evil person, just deeply rotten, and sick. It was clear to me that I would never be able to leave my darling Gumball with my father. I could never knowingly put her at risk. The price for his help was too much for me.

The balm of forgiveness is not for me.

Will my inability to forgive keep me out of heaven? I try to eliminate bitterness and lies from my heart, but I won't sacrifice my daughter to achieve some sort of cosmic state of zen. Fuck that. I'm a mom now, and I can bear any burden. Cosmic peace is not for me, but I will do everything in my power to keep my Gumball safe, and happy.

Gumball Says...

Tonight, my precious, little darling Gumball asked me if Horton would fit in my bellybutton.

Horton is her 10-inch long stuffed elephant. He apparently Hears a Who.

NO FUCKING WAY, kid. And if he could, it would be entirely your fault. Grrrrr...



Doing Pilates yesterday, and Zumba tonight may have been a mistake.  I am dead. The vast landscape between my thighs and ribcage is on fire. My "core," if I have one, is broken.



I was thinking about something else today too. Why I write. I write bc I want to share my limited experience. A little more than two years ago, my life ended. I hit depths of anguish, terror, sorrow, loneliness, heartbreak, and fear that I never knew existed. It was unrelenting, and I honestly have no idea how I survived. Actually I do. Sheer fucking determination and stubbornness. When my first best friend offered me a lifeline, I grabbed hold. With both hands. My mom, and my new friends in Vermont, breathed joy into my lifeless being. I learned a little during this experience. I learned to appreciate any small reason to be happy. I learned how infinitesimally small the space is in between having a happy and successful life, and complete darkness and despair. I doubled my capacity for compassion. I gained a whole new love and respect for moms, and their kindness, strength, generosity, and love. I met women who are the best friends, people, parents, dining companions, fashion consultants, vacation planners anyone could ever want.

And I hope that someone might read this, and realize that no matter how bad things are, they will always get better. Open your hands to accept lifelines, and keep plugging away. Happiness will return.

Catch Up

Remember that time when I vowed to stop bitching, and predicted that this might possibly impact my blogging output?

Yeah. Apparently when I'm not bitching, I have nothing to say. Nothing interesting, anyhow.

So, let me catch y'all up. (Resounding silence.) Dude! I look at the page views. I know someone must be reading this, right? For the love of all things superficial, leave a comment, will you, please? Ok, thanks.

Tonight, I tried a Pilates class. My diet has gone into the toilet. Sort of. I've been a whole lot less concerned about staying under calories. Consequently, I've gained back 3 pounds. Bringing my total loss to 15lbs. Pretty good, but I still want to get back to losing weight. Honestly, I think it has to with the fact that no one is seeing me naked anymore. Mr. Bond was very good for my diet. Anyhow, Pilates. My "core" is trembling still. So freaking hard. I'm going to try to add a class to my weekly routine. Let's see how that goes. I can still be superfat, but with a core of steel. I'm ok with that. I may not be able to make it up the stairs tonight though, which is less cool.

Dating: man, dating is weird and sucky. I've been emailing with several people. Two of note: the most handsome and perfect man in the world, and another army guy. Mr. Perfect is young, built, charming, sweet, and loves kids. He was a nude model in college (for art classes) and is a successful artist. Swoon. He's perfect. Too perfect for me, I fear. Army guy is finishing out a career in the Special Forces. He is handsome, and stern, and we've been emailing since Mr. Bond checked out. His messages are thoughtful and caring, and he is very proper about not being suggestive with me, which I kind of appreciate. He claims to have feelings for me though, and I feel like anyone who claims to have feelings without first being together, is basing their feelings on their own assumptions, and their own hopeful projections. It makes me uncomfortable, but at the same time, it's sort of sweet.

Gumball: the kid is a ticket. She's inquisitive, sweet, hilarious, and so smart. She is taking a gymnastics class with one of her toddler buddies, and spends most of the class running away from me and ignoring what the teacher tries to get her to do. But she adores the trampoline, or the "run and jump" as we call it. She passionately loves all babies, and always asks me "why is that baby crying?" when she hears wailing. She is gentle and sweet with babies too, and only tries to pile several toys on top of them, in an offering of true love. She wolfs down boxes of seaweed, begs for gummy candy, and refuses to eat half of what I put in front of her. She loves Pumpkin so much, and often tries to dress and decorate him. Being a mom to my special Gumball is a complete delight. She makes my heart grow bigger each day, just to contain some of the love that I have for her. She is so precious, unique, and wonderful.

I've recently been forced to think about why I write. At first, I wrote to share anecdotes about baby Gumball. Then, I needed to work out some issues. Writing helped me immensely. And now we've reached a point where I free-flow write about whatever topic piques my interest. I am considering the idea of focusing my writing, or finding a theme, but honestly, I'm not sure if I want to be that organized. Blogging is a funny thing, for me. I enjoy recording my thoughts and experiences, and I enjoy sharing them, with my phantom and possibly non-existent audience. I also find myself in a funny place with the public/private aspects of my blog. I link to my blog from my Instagram account. I link to my blog from my BabyCenter account. And no where else. Consequently, I think that more strangers than friends tend to read this. Maybe not. I really don't know who reads this. And anyone who knows me knows that I am pretty open with the private aspects of my life. I refuse to be ashamed or silenced in my own life. Anyhow, twice recently, I have had pangs of regret/confusion/dread/annoyance to find that someone I didn't want inside my head had been reading my blog. I've had to let go of those feelings, bc I have no control over who reads this, why they read it, and how they respond to my words. 

I won't offer explanations, excuses, or defense for what I write. I don't need to. This is my blog, where I write for myself, and for the love of writing. I am honest, and I am not ashamed. I write about experiences that belong to me, and I try to entertain, titillate, and amuse anyone who takes a moment to read my musings. I even try to proofread.

Blog

This woman writes the sort of blog I wish I could write.

http://youofallpeople.wordpress.com/

Her writing is tender, poignant, honest, beautiful, and, sometimes, hilarious. I don't know this stranger, but I adore her.

I Solomnly Vow I Am Up to No Good

Just kidding.

Just writing this made me burst out laughing so hard.

I'm not up to much. Parenting. Cooking. Instgramming. If anyone reads this and wants to find me on Instagram, I am JEMVT. Get at it. Let's be virtual pals. I love Instagram though. I've made some really nice, interesting virtual friends. We share recipes, talk about makeup, banter, bitch, and gossip together. It's strange to meet people based purely on particular shared interests. I follow a few moms, an author, two artists, and many home and professional cooks. And I enjoy them all very much. It seems like we enjoy each other very much. We're an eclectic group- all ages, races, ethnicities- united by the almighty Iphone and the burning desire to share photos of our beautifully poached eggs. Good times.

I am so tired of feeling sad. Weekends can be achingly hard, and lonely. I want to have a day of rest, a nesting day, with someone. Know what I mean? Cook, cuddle, do fun things with Gumball. Together. I cherish our time together, just me and Gumball, but I do wish our duo was occasionally a trio. Being this profoundly, deeply sad makes parenting especially taxing these days. I refuse to mope around my kid, so I spend 12 hours a day pretending to be upbeat. I also feel guilty for not being upbeat enough, and for all the multitude of other parenting failures I commit on a daily basis, so I overcompensate with more activities, more fun, and more pretending. At baby bedtime, I feel wrung out. Literally jonesing for quiet time on the sofa. I'm thinking wine might help. Or amphetamines? Just kidding. Sort of. Not really.

Another thing that may help, is not dwelling on my sadness. I think this is going to be the last time I write about it, at least for a while. Unless it means that I have nothing to write about, in which case I'll start bitching again. I have a lot to be thankful for: the best friends anyone could ask for, a wonderful but often maddening mom, the sweetest kid, a beautiful home, etc. I am lucky, goddamn it. Lucky. Now I need to be happy.

I need to point out that I am not expecting a relationship to make me happy. I don't put my fragile happiness in another person's fickle arms. I've been married and divorced twice. I know better than to do that. I do think that a relationship would give me the things that I can't give myself. I know the hype. I know another person won't make me happy, and that I need to be happy by myself before I can be happy with another person. But... I can't hug myself, I can't cuddle me, and solo sex is completely unsatisfying. I'm a great partner to myself, but I want someone else to share this with too.

Money Making Proposition

I made twenty cents opening my mail tonight. What's the deal with random coins in donation solicitation letters? I feel compelled to open the letter to retrieve the coin, and then resentful I spent thirty seconds of my life shuffling through a pile of papers that don't matter to me for five cents. March of Dimes may be completely amazing, but my dimes go to Planned Parenthood. And SIECUS.

I'm still lonely, and kind of sad. Not quite as badly as before, at least. I feel like I have a puncture somewhere, so that every time I feel happy, the ebullience slowly leaks away, leaving me deflated. At night, the house seems so quiet, and I delay bedtime bc I don't want to crawl into my cold bed alone. I'm done pining for Mr. Bond, so I'm not wishing for any particular person to be in my bed, but I long for loving arms and gentle words. Specifically Mr. Bond's loving arms, but hey! I am DONE pining for him.

I am trying to move on. If I can't find someone to love me, I would at least like to find someone to send me dirty photos and text messages. And maybe take me out on a date. And write me letters. Best of all, I don't need one person to fill these roles. If love isn't in my future, then I would at least like filthy, sweaty sex.

That is all.