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Irked, peeved, and slightly miffed . . .
I mean, come ON!
Are you people serious?
Give me a f***ing break.
Did I miss the archangels singing?
Did I misplace the ascension memo?
Gabriel, did you blow your horn?
Okay, passive aggressive convoluted rant over . . . thank you. LJ as steam valve seems to work.
So, in unrelated traumas and tribulations of the post modern woman . . .
So I practically raised my niece and nephew from the ages of birth to the ages of 5-6. They are barely 12 months apart and so I went back to college and raised them. Why I needed to attempt 2 Herculean tasks at the same time is a question better left to health professionals.
So every maternal instinct I ever had was satisfied tenfold. I washed, napped, bathed, learned to change 2 diapers at the same time, you know, the usual.
So fast foward to now . . . they are back in the bosom, I am free to travel the world, using my advanced degrees to sell theatre tickets to octagenarians . . . you know, the usual.
So I take them to a hotel for the weekend. For the pool. And the room service. And quality time paid for by Grandpa.
So they no longer snap to good behavior at my frown. Nor do they listen when spoken to. Fortunately, they are still lap babies. Thank God.
So then I take them home at the end of the weekend. And then I have to go lie down because of the crushing sense of loss and longing and regret and guilt that threatens to drive my heart right out of my chest. It hurts, man.
When they first started kindergarten and began to integrate back into their own home, I felt like the parent who lost custody. And so I disconnected for a while in order to stop lying in my bed all day with my Spongebob alarm clock and Dora backpack. And then they grew and I grew and it became a little bit okay and I could watch them from afar and not want to steal them away and raise them on the lam in Australia.
So two days of free cable and room service undid all my nicely tied knots of denial. I am still the parent who lost custody. The one who only gets to see them at holidays and birthdays and when their parents need "a break". The one who gets all the emotional baggage, but not the actual suitcases.
And so survival becomes avoidance. Which is also painful. And it doesn't help that my own parents call and tell me every bad thing that happens and every time their parents act like 16 year old baby sitters as opposed to actual parents and then, in some twisted attempt to show me, oh I don't know, how deep a knife can actually go into someone's chest without killing them, they end almost every conversation with, "You should move back here and take care of them . . . they were better when you had them."
Why I don't drink is beyond me.
So, now the painstakingly crafted scabs have been knocked off and I am a bleeding oozing pile of goo. Until I create some more layers and find ways to sit in this part of my life without crying.
And so one would think this is the perfect time and emotional space to write. Yes, but I am deeply offended by kidfic and no matter how much money you offer me, I am not giving House and Wilson kids. And just mentioning Starsky and babies in the same sentence makes my skin crawl. And I don't think I even need to mention the ludicrousness that is a toddler running around Torchwood.
So I think I'll go write crack. Or smoke it. I'll decide later.
So every maternal instinct I ever had was satisfied tenfold. I washed, napped, bathed, learned to change 2 diapers at the same time, you know, the usual.
So fast foward to now . . . they are back in the bosom, I am free to travel the world, using my advanced degrees to sell theatre tickets to octagenarians . . . you know, the usual.
So I take them to a hotel for the weekend. For the pool. And the room service. And quality time paid for by Grandpa.
So they no longer snap to good behavior at my frown. Nor do they listen when spoken to. Fortunately, they are still lap babies. Thank God.
So then I take them home at the end of the weekend. And then I have to go lie down because of the crushing sense of loss and longing and regret and guilt that threatens to drive my heart right out of my chest. It hurts, man.
When they first started kindergarten and began to integrate back into their own home, I felt like the parent who lost custody. And so I disconnected for a while in order to stop lying in my bed all day with my Spongebob alarm clock and Dora backpack. And then they grew and I grew and it became a little bit okay and I could watch them from afar and not want to steal them away and raise them on the lam in Australia.
So two days of free cable and room service undid all my nicely tied knots of denial. I am still the parent who lost custody. The one who only gets to see them at holidays and birthdays and when their parents need "a break". The one who gets all the emotional baggage, but not the actual suitcases.
And so survival becomes avoidance. Which is also painful. And it doesn't help that my own parents call and tell me every bad thing that happens and every time their parents act like 16 year old baby sitters as opposed to actual parents and then, in some twisted attempt to show me, oh I don't know, how deep a knife can actually go into someone's chest without killing them, they end almost every conversation with, "You should move back here and take care of them . . . they were better when you had them."
Why I don't drink is beyond me.
So, now the painstakingly crafted scabs have been knocked off and I am a bleeding oozing pile of goo. Until I create some more layers and find ways to sit in this part of my life without crying.
And so one would think this is the perfect time and emotional space to write. Yes, but I am deeply offended by kidfic and no matter how much money you offer me, I am not giving House and Wilson kids. And just mentioning Starsky and babies in the same sentence makes my skin crawl. And I don't think I even need to mention the ludicrousness that is a toddler running around Torchwood.
So I think I'll go write crack. Or smoke it. I'll decide later.
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We had / have a similar situation with my young nephew. Luckily my sister has now got her life back on track but everytime we see him then have to leave I spend the next day wanting to cry my eyes out. Logically I know I should just enjoy the time we have together but I can't seem to stop the 'grieving' process (for want of a better description). And my parents focus on how it's all turned out right in the end - I'd love to explain how I feel but don't want to upset anyone *sigh*
'And so survival becomes avoidance'. So eloquent and true :(
*hugs*
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Yeah, its the sadness that always is there, even when I'm with the kids - I don't get that part . . .
I think it gets better - or morphs into something else, maybe an ache . . .
hugs back to you!