This Is Me Maria

I drive a red Prius instead of a van now, but it looks and smells like a soccer mom in here. Practice Tuesdays, clinic on Thursdays, game on Saturday mornings, micro soccer also some how on Saturday mornings. Emails that all 20 people “Reply All” to - going back and forth just about every day.

When I’m not in the office I’m glued to my iphone trying to answer emails and cross things off of my ever growing to do list. Trying to find to time to do anything else but play catch up is just about impossible and school hasn’t even started due to the teacher strike. So of course PTA and Health Committee stuff are just waiting to pounce.

I’m taking the fall off from school so as not to overwhelm myself and so we can pay for a new bed again. (We are going to get a real king bed with no grand canyon in the middle and let the kids have these.)

Every Wednesday I rush off to the other side of downtown Bellevue to see my therapist after work. I always feel more distorted when I leave than when I got there. I feel like a crazy, spoiled person every time I go there. I feel like I’m going to get help for petty problems as I pull into the lovely office park. I’m not starving, dying, diseased, or ill! I think to myself as I sit down on her white couch to tell her about how busy and stressed out I am from being a working, sometimes in college, house is forever being remodeled, soccer mom.

Oddly though, I find myself more content rushing around like a some what crazy lady. It is kind of like a video game where you have to get all the points as you overcome various obstacles like shin guard chewing dogs, missing shoes, and those stupid weeds that keep coming back. I throw my head back and laugh as my husband says he’ll be working all weekend.

The worst part about family is how you can see parts of them in yourself.

My arms look like my mom’s arms. My feet look like my mom’s feet. My hands are big like my dad’s. My nose is big like my mom’s.

I have an unhealthy obsession with jewelry, like my grandma. Currently my house is unfinished and messy like hers too. I am not punctual, like my dad. I have a temper that bares the rage the boils inside me, like my mom.

My kids are a lot like me. Cody is insecure like me. You can tell when he talks. Madison looks just like me. (Her toes look like my sister’s funny shaped toes that I used to make fun of.)

They are like Chris too. Cody looks just like him. Madison has his long fingers. They both have his big, brown, puppy dog eyes and long lashes.

There some strange things I’ve inherited that I love though.

I am a night owl. While not very useful, I love the dark and the night.

I love the rain, trees, and clouds of the Seattle area.

I am conscious of the environment.

The moral glasses I look through are very  black and white. They are few if any areas of grey.

There are so many pieces of me that come from my parents and my upbringing. I’ve been trying to sift those out of the emotional clutter. The better I know myself, I think perhaps the better I can raise my littles to be the people I think they should be.

Saturday evening after returning from 8 hours in a software testing class (nearly 2 of which were spent w/o power) I took the kids to a local park. The parks in here are fantastic. Most are tucked away in a quiet neighborhood and surrounded by giant old trees.

My own yard is in complete disarray so I have a great appreciation for well cared for landscaping. We were getting some where but then we got Talia back who is a digger. Then the kids started digging as well. They have also taken to playing with our yard equipment to build forts.

When they are old they are going to say to their own kids, “When I was a kid I had to play with wheelbarrows and tarps.”

The parks here are well maintained and manicured. The grass here is so ridiculously and wonderfully green. There is always room for improvement in the restroom department though. 

We burned up the daylight avoiding the hot lava by climbing over the play structures, rolling down the grassy hills, laying under the giant trees, and the kids ran to and fro across the grassy ball fields.

The kids took off their shoes and danced around in the grass.  As usual I was busy snapping photographs and making sure  they didn’t get hurt or contract any germs.

At home I am pretty lax about most things but when we go out I am a germaphobe and a hawk. I don’t like public restrooms or anything that a lot of people touch. I also don’t like for them to be out of my sight for even a second when we are out. I feel a little crazy in the grocery store sounding like a parrot saying “don’t touch that” over and over again.

We made our way home as the sun ducked behind a hill. I had been arguing with Chris before we left for the park so I left my phone in the car. Later I realized that it was so blissful to spend time with them, with out any interruptions but that of curious dog being taken for an evening walk.

I recall these emotions from the days where I stayed at home with them and I miss those moments tremendously. I’m writing it down to remind me to take more uninterrupted time with them.

It is funny what you learn about yourself when someone (like a therapist) just sits and actually listens to you talk.

Maybe it is my depressive, psychotic state but for some reason I feel like now is a good time to explore how I feel about my mom her.

Of all the things we’ve covered so far in therapy, the one thing that made me cry was her. It was so ridiculous. I like distraction from life, grieving is a good distraction. Shall we?

Her ashes are here in my house. I don’t like to remember that. They are in my dog’s bedroom in a plastic bag. Well the velvet bag that holds the wooden box that holds the Ziploc bag of ashes (I looked when I was a kid) is in the plastic grocery bag. God that is so horrible. I should box it up and mail it to her family.

Every photograph my family ever took are here in my house in photo boxes. This makes me so unbelievably angry. We made so many memories and no one even cares anymore.

Someone’s new wife has the emotional maturity of a 10 year old and can’t stand to have photos of someone’s previous life anywhere in their house. Not one. single. photograph.

I don’t want the responsibility of carrying on her memory or the memories of our family. He was supposed to do that. It is his job! I don’t want to be responsible for this!

I read that kids need to know where they came from, so I have to come to grips with all of this and be able to communicate information about my family with a positive spin. So far both children are very interested in how she died. They understand that I don’t have a mother and that she is dead. Much to my dismay they ask a lot of questions about her.

If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to answer questions. So far I’ve used inner hatred towards her for leaving to block out whatever real vulnerable emotions I might have. Probably not the healthiest idea.

I was 11 and she left. This feels horrible. The empty gaping whole people leave when they die, I don’t feel that anymore. I guess this is the crap that comes after that.

When we moved into the first home we bought, we went to the mattress store and bought a new bed. A very comfy king sized bed. Both kids slept in it with us when they were babies.

When we moved here we decided that since we have this big house, the kids should work on sleeping in their own rooms and their own beds.

Occasionally we used to all take a nap together or watch a movie on our big bed though. I actually bent Chris’s arm backwards in one of our many wrestling matches on the big bed.

In the some what recent past, Chris got rid of the big bed and got us new beds. Yes bed(s). Two twin sized Sleep Number beds that also do the whole sitting up and massage thing. The Sleep Number people told him that the beds would not come apart. They were right, the bolted frame does not come apart. Although they are on wheels so the bed moves around…

However in between our two mattresses is a giant canyon. No matter what, it is always there. The four of us can no longer just comfortably laze around together. I always end up in the giant canyon, which is even worse for my back than our old mattress.

Heck the two of us can’t even sleep right next to each other. My favorite place in the whole world used to be L of Chris’s arm. No more though because it is reminiscent of high school college trying squeeze onto his tiny bed.

If you have ever shopped for a Sleep Number bed, you know that we will have to keep these beds for the rest of our married lives. It is great the beds are so comfy, I never want to get out of my bed on the weekend and I don’t wake up in pain anymore. In some ways though these beds have ruined my life. I was deeply devastated when we first started sleeping in them because of the giant canyon between us. My bed is so comfortable though anymore I can just lay in it and sleep away my anguish forever.

I really just want to lay around with my family on our bed. Watch a movie or listen to the silly jokes my kids tell. Of course we can do this anywhere but it was our own little family thing to just laze around in bed. These beds were not made for families.

If you are thinking of getting a new bed, don’t do it! You never know what kind of disaster you could bring to your life by purchasing a new bed. Just keep your big old bed. Buy some new sheets for it.

Content type = bitchy drama

While I admit to being pretty damn lazy (my husband will attest to this) there is a certain level of lazy that I cannot tolerate and it is where lazy starts becoming irresponsible; or in this case is so far past the line of irresponsibility that “the line is a dot!” to those in question.

My spouse has a lot of non awesome family. I do too but my family doesn’t force me to hang out with them, so we are more like casual acquaintances - I know just enough to tolerate them or even mildly appreciate their rare presence in my life.

The most non awesome people in his family are two of his cousins. Their actions infuriate me but I can’t say squat to anyone because the grandparents would like to keep the peace even though they are the ones being used and screwed here. I know they are adults too who can make their own decisions but even adults sometimes need someone to stick up for them, unless of course they tell people not to…

I’ve been channeling my evil anger towards the Eviltons but that doesn’t seem to have stopped them from borrowing thousands of dollars from two little old people who don’t have much to spare, and dumping their bratty children on them instead of bucking up and paying their own bills and for childcare like the rest of us. What I wouldn’t give to say that to their faces but then I’d have to listen my husband bitch. (As a couple we go to great lengths to avoid listening to the other one bitch.)

Anyway, I know I’m not wrong here. I am just not mature enough to let this roll off because it keeps coming back up and all I can do is stand on the side lines with my fists clenched. I can’t do anything about it and I hate that.

/bitchy drama