Tonight I hurt. I hurt because my little girl is hurting and even if it is just little 4 year old hurt, I can see in her little eyes that it’s big hurt to her. Why does the hurt start so early? Why can’t we protect our little ones until they are big enough to handle the hurt? She was so sad. So sad and used such “real” words to explain her sadness. “I don’t think she likes me anymore mommy. I feel like she’s done with me and I feel like she thinks I’m her OLD friend and M is her NEW friend. I’m just the old news now mommy and I’m not ready to be the old news. I still love C.” I choked back tears as she said all of this. I told her that tomorrow will be a new day and she’ll be “in” again. I asked her if C said anything that made her feel like “old news” and she said, “she wouldn’t hold my hand while we were dancing. She would only hold M’s hand. She kept shaking my hand away. I told her she was making me sad and she said she just didn’t want to hold my hand.” And the tears were rolling down her cheeks as she relived it for me. And I held her. So close I held her. I wanted to tell her, I’M her friend, will always be her friend and all she needs is me. But I know that’s not what she needs to hear. And I know that’s not true.
Monthly Archives: October 2009
There’s a spider, a ghost and a mummy. Yes, a mummy. Those are 2 little yellow eyes poking out. Not sure what went wrong there… nothing like the adorable, perfectly wrapped mummy I copied to make it. I’m wondering if I’ll have to tell the teachers that Hannah made them. Hannah at least knew what they were (except the mummy which she thought was “a mess of stars”).
My boy. It’s STILL crazy to say that. My boy. I have a boy. After 3.5 years of being swallowed and overwhelmed with GIRL, I have a boy. I cried quietly in the middle of the first night he was born because if I’m honest today, I don’t think I was happy I had a boy. I was ecstatic I had another BABY (after all I went through) but I didn’t think I’d know how to “do” boy. Would I “get” him? Would he “get” me? How would I talk Star Wars having never actually SEEN Star Wars? Would I have to memorize baseball, football and basketball stats so that he’d want to be with me? Would he let me hug him and smooch him? Would he cuddle? How soon would I be ditched for daddy?
I was planning on writing today all about the new phase that Hannah is in these days but as I logged on to work on it, I received an email from a friend of mine with a Halloween card which then turned into my evening activity. I believe Hannah will be in this new stage for quite some time, so you’ll be sure to see it later this week. So, instead of my planned post, may I present to you the following:
There are firsts for everything. Some more life changing than others. Some pretty life altering firsts are: first A on your report card, first hickey, first time driving alone with the music blaring, windows down and singing at the top of your lungs, first day living on your own, first day of marriage, first diaper change and first writing contest. Ok, maybe first writing contest isn’t such a big deal for some of you but for me, it’s big. Because I never was a writer and you’re not supposed to enter a contest if it’s not something you do Well. And honestly, I probably wouldn’t be doing this one if the topic for the contest wasn’t one that I thought I’d KICK ASS in. But it is. Jill over at her amazing blog Scary Mommy is running a contest to see who along with her, is seriously a scary mommy (although I haven’t quite figured out what makes her so scary, she’s just hysterical, but I’ll just go with it). I however, am scary. And I should win. And you’ll see why below. And after you read it and totally 100% agree with me, head on over to her blog and vote for me so that I can win the coolest video camera and some of the blankets that Luke drags around with him all day every day because they are the best blankets ever invented and I need more of them. Got it? Good. Oh and to help the slower of you out there, I’ve highlighted in orange any derivation of “scary” that I write to help you follow along as to why and how I’m in fact scary. You’re welcome.
A day of the stomach virus has knocked me to the ground and I’m having a hard time getting back up, but before you all think I never returned from my spa get-away, I thought I’d post a quick ditty about one small “adventure” I had at the spa.
When I used to keep a diary growing up, and even in recent years, I always stopped writing during “bad” times. I guess I never wanted to admit, even if just to myself, that there was anything wrong. It was much easier to write about the happy, proud, excited times like when I had a crush on a boy who I thought liked me back, when I scored goals or placed well in a sport I was competing in or when I was achieving what I had set my mind to achieve. The times when I knew I was in a relationship going south, when I was worried about my grades, hating my job, or was having a hard time finding my “place” in life, my pen sat on my desk and months or even years would go by before I’d find the need or courage to write again. Maybe I thought if I didn’t write about it, it wasn’t a problem. My diary for many years was a confidant. Something I knew that wouldn’t judge me. But for some reason, it seems I actually did view it as something I felt judged by. Maybe I didn’t want to look back on those years and realized I had failed at anything.