I can't say I'm back again. But I can say that if I don't write something in here soon my head truly will pop off. Main reason for absence:
We still don't know where the Rabbit is going to school in 4 months. A continuation of Limbo courtesy of the New York City School System and I can't say I'm thrilled. I can say that I am sure it will work out, kind of like I am sure the sun will rise tomorrow morning because it has since the dinosaur age, but not because at this particular moment I believe that.
(sidenote: There are a lot of other things as well, issues which I can't write about, and more boring things, but the kidlet situation is the one plaguing me the most.)
The worst is I feel like I have become an unholy Manhattan Mama -- one of those revolting she-devils who runs around believing their child is special and why can't anyone recognize this. I have sickened myself, I know I am offending good people around me, and I just can't stop.
It reminds me of when I lived in California. I lived next door to a woman who, well, I felt had traded her sanity for, something I don't know. We lived in a broken down apartment building with a rotted wooden staircase that we both loved to put potted plants along. And I would notice that my plants, everyday, shrunk and shrunk in space allocated to them.
So finally, one day, I decided to give up on the terrace fight, and went to the "backyard" -- a term I use loosely because what it really was, was a overgrown weed farm that had once had trucks parked on it, and where the Meth addicts who lived below me would pass out after a spell. I dug up a ten-foot square, planted some lavender and geraniums and called it a lovely day.
Next morning I woke up to discover the creature had roped off a 30-foot square -- kind of like what surveyors do before they break ground for their multi-billion dollar condos. And I couldn't let it go. We launched into some sort of sick gardening cock fight, (weed wackers were involved) until blessedly the Prince had the sense to get himself transferred to London and we could move.
But until that point, I was in deep trouble.
And that's where I am again today.
When I was single, I would get these crazy-ugglies (I read that somewhere and thought that was the perfect description of this kind of lost insane feeling), and I could just lock myself in my head, go to work, come home, watch hours of Little House on the Prairie or Starsky and Hutch or whatever would be on late night reruns, eat pints of frozen chocolate sorbet (and nothing else) until my brain unscrambled and I could trust myself to have polite conversations without mutant insanity popping from my head.
Now I have a child who requires I interact with the human race, and a husband who requires some involvement as well, and I don't find I can lock the door or not answer the phone anymore without causing disruption to everyone else around me.
So instead I think I have managed to offend nearly anyone in a good 30-foot circle around me at anytime and am constantly in a state of vibrating discomfort.
Yes, it's finally true. I have turned into a (s)mother.
We still don't know where the Rabbit is going to school in 4 months. A continuation of Limbo courtesy of the New York City School System and I can't say I'm thrilled. I can say that I am sure it will work out, kind of like I am sure the sun will rise tomorrow morning because it has since the dinosaur age, but not because at this particular moment I believe that.
(sidenote: There are a lot of other things as well, issues which I can't write about, and more boring things, but the kidlet situation is the one plaguing me the most.)
The worst is I feel like I have become an unholy Manhattan Mama -- one of those revolting she-devils who runs around believing their child is special and why can't anyone recognize this. I have sickened myself, I know I am offending good people around me, and I just can't stop.
It reminds me of when I lived in California. I lived next door to a woman who, well, I felt had traded her sanity for, something I don't know. We lived in a broken down apartment building with a rotted wooden staircase that we both loved to put potted plants along. And I would notice that my plants, everyday, shrunk and shrunk in space allocated to them.
So finally, one day, I decided to give up on the terrace fight, and went to the "backyard" -- a term I use loosely because what it really was, was a overgrown weed farm that had once had trucks parked on it, and where the Meth addicts who lived below me would pass out after a spell. I dug up a ten-foot square, planted some lavender and geraniums and called it a lovely day.
Next morning I woke up to discover the creature had roped off a 30-foot square -- kind of like what surveyors do before they break ground for their multi-billion dollar condos. And I couldn't let it go. We launched into some sort of sick gardening cock fight, (weed wackers were involved) until blessedly the Prince had the sense to get himself transferred to London and we could move.
But until that point, I was in deep trouble.
And that's where I am again today.
When I was single, I would get these crazy-ugglies (I read that somewhere and thought that was the perfect description of this kind of lost insane feeling), and I could just lock myself in my head, go to work, come home, watch hours of Little House on the Prairie or Starsky and Hutch or whatever would be on late night reruns, eat pints of frozen chocolate sorbet (and nothing else) until my brain unscrambled and I could trust myself to have polite conversations without mutant insanity popping from my head.
Now I have a child who requires I interact with the human race, and a husband who requires some involvement as well, and I don't find I can lock the door or not answer the phone anymore without causing disruption to everyone else around me.
So instead I think I have managed to offend nearly anyone in a good 30-foot circle around me at anytime and am constantly in a state of vibrating discomfort.
Yes, it's finally true. I have turned into a (s)mother.
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