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7:33 a.m. - 2010-09-09
A fool's hat and an apron.

Contrary to my usual way of beginning my online morning I'm jumping right in to write an entry.

(The usual? Weather, email, headlines, comics, Dear Abby, Bejeweled Blitz spin, then…"Oh look! A chicken!" and I'm off following whatever newsy/bloggy/opinion-y thing that snagged my eye.)

Popped awake at 5:00am, my go-to early waking time when the mind movies have been gruesome. Though from what I remember the last reel wasn't so much horrific as it was panicky and anxious. And I know where the anxiety came from…the comments from the previous entry.

Wait. What? LA, all the comments were very kind and quite complimentary.


Look, after being completely blind to the true relationship I had with my elder son, in which I was crazy about him and he wanted me dead but was never courteous or honest enough to say so, I live in fear of missing something about how it goes between me and Wolf. I record my thoughts and our conversations not so the world will coo and say, "Oh! What a good mommy you are!", but so later on when he spits in my face and stomps off to join his brother in the "We hope Mom gets hit by an asteroid" Club I have evidence that yes, at one time he seemed to love me back. That's all.

A dangerous edge to walk, this preparing to be hated and left yet trying hard not to make it a self-fulfilling prophesy.

I've been wrong about every single relationship I've ever had. Believing like the silly cow that I am that those who I love actually love me back. Wrong! What I am is tolerated as long as I am useful. That's all. When the goodies stop going out and I am no longer a handy whipping girl or profitable or a convenient source of meals and clean laundry, well then I'm history.

Except for Mick. He gets little enough from me that I'm pretty certain that his use for me isn't as an ATM or laundress. I'm neither his doormat nor his dupe. In fact he's so appreciative of the little bit I do it's unnerving. He genuinely seems to love me for me, rather than for any services rendered. I believe him when he says I'm smart and beautiful and a joy to him just as I am- a tubby, mostly failing writer with a hippy-ish life philosophy and a knack for gourmet cooking on the cheap. A weird combination of bedrock practicality, airy-fairy kumbaya-ness, and whirling hormones.

Anyway, about my kid. As with his brother before him, I do my best, but having learned my lesson I have no expectation that my best will be good enough. In fact it makes me nervous now when people compliment my mothering. I know better. Doesn't mean I'm abdicating my responsibilities. I put him into to this world and thus owe him the best mother I can figure out how to be. That's the bottom line. As for what might come after, meh. I might end up with a son who still speaks to me when he's grown or I might just be pounding sand down a rat hole, who knows? Not me, that's for sure. I try not to have any expectations in either direction. I'm living in the Now and giving it everything I've got.

And writing it down, you know, just in case that's all there is.

Sad, but realistic. ~LA

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