November 5, 2001
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I am sick of trying for another child. I am sick of writing about it.
Why isn't Mouse good enough? Why isn't she enough all on her own? I love her so much sometimes it hurts to breathe, and yet I still want more. Sometimes she frustrates to the point of madness, and I snap - and I still get ridiculously soppy with all the love inside - even when I am wiping masticated chicken off my front, or down on my hands and knees rescuing the contents of my purse.
She should be enough. It's not like I am supermum - always calm, always patient, always into my kid. Sometimes I would pay money if she would leave me alone for an hour. Sometimes ten minutes. There are times that I think I will go mad if I have to feign interest in the Teletubbies or sing the 'Katie' song once more fucking time.
So it's not like I am so great at being a mother I think the world will lose out if I don't get another go.
It's something primal. It's something I cannot explain. The more I love her, the more I battle through the bad sticky-eyed from lack of sleep days - the more I need to have more. It's perplexing.
Anyway, this whole entry is to make sense of the total meltdown I had last night when it became obvious that this months efforts were for nothing.
I beat the crap out of the boxing bag in the garage. I don't know who I was tussling with, but I think it was whatever thinks it's a good thing that I let myself get so happy and then have to crash and burn. Fuck them, whomever they are, whatever religion it is, what-fucking-evah. A big fat fuck you.
Song for the day: Fairytale of New York - The Pogues
Comments (1)
Oh my god...someone else with my life!!!! Well, sort of. I could give you all the platitudes, and say, "hey, everything will be okay!" (which, after reading your last entry would really be a smack in the face), but instead I'll just say that survivors are not what you find on the plains of africa. They are the people who get up everyday and live their lives, even though they don't necessarily see the reason. Even though they don't really want to. My sister used to have a plaque over her desk. It read:
One day as I sat, sad and lonely a little voice came to me saying, "Cheer up, things could be worse." So I cheered up, and sure enough, things got worse. I definitely have those moments...a few years ago they were even more frequent. But I'm still here.
I can tell you are a survivor just from reading these blogs. Punch the bag...vent on screen...scream in your mind and then smile for your kid and realize, platitude or not, somebody out there ALWAYS HAS IT WORSE. honest.
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