July 26, 2008

  • Well Boo-boo is tucked up in bed in the midst of where Marc and I will be, talking to herself and playing with her Littlest Pet Shop Punk pets. Her preference is the Punkified Vampire Bat. Oi.

    Mousey is over at a sleepover/costume party. She went as Hannah Montana. Double Oi. My head just wants to split wide open at the amount of concentration you need in this house to nuture each girl's personality without crushing it. Do you know, I had to blow dry Mouse's hair THREE times?

    How can such polar opposites come from my loins?

    What fresh hell is that?

    We interrupted (Boo-boo and I) our watching of the Disney Channel movie to search for Punkified Iguana who has a black and purple mohawk. She cried. I cried because Marc wasn't taking the whole thing seriously enough.

    FUCK ME I AM LOSING IT.

    Yeah so about me. Had a bad day today, cried alot while driving cos the kids were in the back. Punched past every remotely introspective song on the car CDs and settled on Mary J. Blige.

    Googled some more. Wished I hadn't. Wanted to smack Marc everytime he caught me crying and said "we are going to beat this". There ain't no 'we' bub. You can be by my side and wish me well but when it comes right down to it -- this is mine, my journey alone. I go through this alone. You can be there, rub my shoulders, but in the small hours of the night when I get up and wander round the house... it's mine.

    I look at the stats and know that could be me.

    I look at my daughters and wonder if I will see them married with babies of their own.

    I look back at my life and have regrets.

    I look forward and have regrets.

    This so fucking sucks.

Comments (3)

  • Forgot to say -- in my last comment -- that cryin's good, too.  Let it out.  Let it out.  Don't keep it in.

    You're right that this is yours and not Marc's.  But there IS a we, as in you and he, and so there are two battles going on.  Yours, and the one with you and him on the same side.

    I remember when Marvis yelled at me once.  "Get the fuck out of this kitchen."  She had never said "fuck" before, not in an angry tone of voice.  She was in the kitchen, cooking me a surprise breakfast, and didn't want me to know what I'd be eating till she served it.  She loved springing wonderful surprises.  And I nearly inadvertently spoiled the surprise she had in store for me.

    But the angry words.  Yes, later we talked about them.  We both knew that it was the cancer talking, not her.

    We loved each other very much.

  • Stress, I've been reading you since way back in hipmama days, I think...??   I'm coming out of lurkdom to say, damn, I'm sorry you have to deal with all of this right now but, as usual, I appreciate your *real* response to all of this because there's no other way to say it - it sucks.  And it sucks even MORE to have young children to care for and worry about, now and in the future.

    As for your list below... I think it's too late for Jimi Hendrix at least.  And, oh, I shot a gun. ONCE.  It was horrible, not list-worthy ;)   For me, at least...  

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