Yes, I know I’ve gone on and on at various points what I’m about to go on and on about now. But nothing’s changed (much) and it seems like things are getting worse (in my shallow and not-so world) and I figure, if I keep blogging about it, I will take my own advice (that I’ve given out to a lot of you). And I will find my own damn happy.
Let’s start off nice and shallow.
Today, I thought I found a gray hair. This was as I was pinning my haven’t-been-washed-in-five-days bangs out of my eyes, thinking I needed a trim, wondering how it all became so dry and frizzy, and noticing the horrible scalp conditions I’ve got going on.
That moved on to the general Brooke Sheildsesness of my eyebrows, the sun damage and wrinkles surrounding my eyes, the fine hair that coveres my entire face.
Wait, let’s back up. I haven’t really slept in about four years. Rarely is the night that goes by with more than four hours. It shows. Closer to the present was a long-time friend’s comment that losing weight over the years has aged me. So has stress and smoking.
So has Isobel. And her father, really. I’m sure her and I have aged him a bit, too.
The usual mommy stuff can get pasted in here – the stretch marks, cellulite, loose skin. I own all of the above. But then I also have a quite awesome collection of spider veins that seem to be multiplying daily, along with freckles and moles.
There’s the physical. Now, the more intangible.
I’ve never been more unhappy with a living space as I am now – more like I’ve got no control. Control about where to put things (they go where they fit, right now), how to conduct my everyday activities in said space (must do dishes a few times a day now – no counter space – and there’s barely room for Isobel to dance and spin anymore.), whether I have my blood sucked out by some form of nasty vermin (new bug bite count is up to 12, for a total of 31 in a week).
I am losing my shit about it.
I’ve got great ideas and no cash to put into them.
Which brings me to other stuff. My lack of ability to stop fucking shit up. Between Starbucks and over-grocery shopping and buying little things here and there, and Isobel’s birthday – I’m fairly broke. I’m waiting on the refund of my security deposit, which will buy me some breathing room, but it’s looking like even if I felt confident enough in the bug scenario to buy a new bed, I couldn’t morally fork over the cash without some major buyer’s remorse.
Looking at my budget for the month, which I have not yet updated, has shown me that I had a lot of potential wiggle room that I, as usual, have pissed away.
Cleaning my old apartment showed me what a nasty mess-maker I’ve been over the years. Clearing out junk I’d accumulated taught me that I didn’t need a lot of stuff and neither does Isobel.
Now for the extreme asshole qualities.
I’m not a great mom. I spend more time during the day putting on movies and pushing a stroller and going on imagined needed grocery and coffee excursions – all just to avoid actually pointedly engaging Isobel – than I do being that mom that a lot of you seem to think I am. Yes, for the most part I talk gently to her, avoid raising my voice, explain the morals and reasoning behind the ‘no’s, but me? I’m a feisty, flightly, angry woman by nature.
And Isobel, like her father, has the ability to make me want to rage out. So I take it easy, on the Internet while Dora plays on repeat. I ask her, when I’m pushing the stroller, to stop whining because my brain will melt. I resort to immaturity, “if you can’t listen to me when I say not to dump your cup out, I won’t listen to you when you ask for more water” I am not money at this parenting thing.
But I could be.
What the fuck am I doing?
So, once again, for the zillionth time, I say:
From here on out, I’m going to change things. I’m going to be a better mom, I’m going to spend money effectively and responsibly, I’m going to take a fucking bath more often than once a week and actually take some fucking pride in my goddamn (sorry, churchies) appearance. I’m going to try to go back to trying to be the person I want to, inside and out.
And it all might start with this book.
