I wrote this in 2003. Surprisingly, there isn't much I would add to it, even nearly 10 years later. Now the question lies in your court. What would you say to your mother (be it good, bad or ugly) if you dared?
You never really loved me for the person that I was. You only wanted to mold me into what you thought was right. You wanted me to grow up and live the life that you missed out on. You never let me make my own mistakes. You were cruel to me as I grew up. You are the reason I am so moody and mean and negative and resentful. You are the reason why I am constantly questioning my parenting capabilities. I fear nothing more than becoming bitter and repressed, just as you are.
I do not love you and I never can. I have tried so many times and have been struck down. I have been hurt by your rejection. I have been scarred by your utter hate of me. You are a liar and a disappointment. You place blame on everyone else and refuse to accept the responsibility for your own actions. You are the only reason your life is in shambles.
You pretend to be someone you are not to outsiders. To your family, you are totally different. You ruined any chance my brother ever had at a normal life. You are the reason he is socially inept. You are the reason my sister has low self esteem. You led my father into a life of lies and then placed the blame solely on him. You are devious and you don't care who you have to hurt to get what you want. You did do those awful things to me that I accused you of and other terrible things that I will never speak of.
And I just want to know why?
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Friday, June 8, 2012
The crazy assorted animal lady wannabe.
While I have always only ever wanted one child, on the flip side, I have always aspired to be the proud human pack leader of what I jokingly refer to as "a flock of dogs." It's one of the few reasons I finally relented to my husband's endless cry babying about home ownership and took the 30 year mortgage plunge. Yes, that's me, the crazy assorted animal lady wannabe.
So far, I'm up to three pets. Scribbles, the fat, fluffy, 12 year old, long haired, orange super shedder that must have been birthed in the very bowels of Hell. He's a demonic presence in my life. There's no haunting in my 211 year old Victorian home but that bastard sure likes to go bump in the night. All night long. That's not even taking his constant kitty mouth meowing into consideration. He's a nuisance, quite frankly, and a known troublemaker. He's too smart for anyone else's good but his own and he likes it that way. He can walk into a room and cause complete chaos within 14 seconds before sauntering out in a blaze of nonchalant feline glory, hide for the 20 minutes that it takes for me to calm the dogs down again and reappear, as if on cue, for a fur flying, repeat performance just as the dust is finally settling. Put it this way- If pot stirring was an Olympic event, he'd be a gold medal champion.
I mean, don't get me wrong. I love Scribbles. Every once and awhile. Just usually when he's sleeping.
Suffice it to say, I'm not a cat person. Once Mr. Kitty passes on into Animal Heaven (or back to the sulfurous pits of Satan's Lair from which he came) I don't EVER want another one. I mean it. I'm done. I refuse to deal with clawed up furniture, litter boxes, and every other bit of mayhem that comes along with that particular species of supposedly domesticated mammals.
I can honestly swear that I am completely impervious to the charm of kitties. Here's the proof; Right down the street from us, there's a sign out front of a house that reads "Free Kittens." Hubby, who is a tried and true cat lover, made the telltale, "Awwwwwww," when we passed it. I responded with, "Oh hell no! Free kittens! Psssh! Might as well read 'Free Poltergeist'! No way am I inviting that kind of evil into my home."
Now, I'm sure you're judging me pretty harshly at the moment, but bear with me. I'm getting to the happy-go-lucky, oh, how I love canines portion of the story.
My boo boo baby bear dog Sasha is a stout, 3 year old Shih Tzu that's been perfectly trained. Aside from her strange, inexplicable, anti-social desire to "kill, kill, kill" random friends, several extended family members, and, of course, Scribbles, she's a good seed. She even sleeps in our bed, cuddled up next to me like a darling little stuffed animal. Her bold personality is far too big for her tiny toy breed body. She's fiercely protective and, even if it meant taking on a pit bull 15 times her size, I can almost guarantee that she would willingly lay down her life to protect her pack. She's a lover and a fighter. A true forever friend.
Sasha doesn't maim or destroy furniture, carpets or woodwork and she'd never dream of going potty in the house. That being said, she will shamelessly steal any food that's been unattended long enough for her to scarf down without so much as chewing. That's her one vice and I forgive her for it. She spent the first three years of her life in three different apartments with us and now that she's got a big house with an amazing backyard to roam around in, we decided that the senselessly spoiled creature needed a bigger-little sister. Or that was really just an excuse for me to add another pup to my proposed pack. Whatever.
Enter Godzilla, the mixed breed, Chester County pound puppy of my dreams. Well, except for the part where she was deathly freaking ill with pneumonia and desperately in need of urgent, extremely expensive veterinary treatment. Three weeks and over fifteen hundred dollars later, she's healthy as a horse and as rambunctious as a two year old toddler... with the mischievousness to match.
I feel like I birthed another baby because I'm having flashbacks to the early days of my son's life when my entire world revolved around diaper changes and ear splitting early morning wake up calls. Only now it's all about administering medicine, making sure she's eating enough to grow, crate training, housebreaking, saying "NO, NO, NO, NO" to damn near everything, watching her like a hawk lest she use the legs of my dining room table as a chew toy, taking her out every hour on the hour to go potty, playing fetch to dispel excess energy, and waking up at 5:00 AM to care for the baby-dog (before the caring for my boy and myself needs to take precedence). Recent conversations with my hubby have been limited to talk about poopy, pee-pee, feeding schedules, and, like any proud new parents, the sharing of tid-bits pertaining to the many adorable acts she's performed.
By the end of the day, I am completely exhausted and, oddly enough, grateful that I didn't have a human baby at my ripe old age of 30. I seriously don't know how I survived those first few years of 'round the clock care. I guess instinct took over and, after 12 years, time has blurred the edge of my memory. Still, I'm 100% certain that having a puppy is 200 times easier than raising a child from infancy. I know that within six months, Godzilla will be well on her way to Sasha-caliber behavior and all of this time and attention will pay off. My son, on the other hand, is still a frustrating handful.
Just do me one favor. When I'm itching for a new addition in a year or so, remind me of this blog. Maybe refreshing myself by re-reading a healthy dose of reality will curb my eagerness to expand the family again.
So far, I'm up to three pets. Scribbles, the fat, fluffy, 12 year old, long haired, orange super shedder that must have been birthed in the very bowels of Hell. He's a demonic presence in my life. There's no haunting in my 211 year old Victorian home but that bastard sure likes to go bump in the night. All night long. That's not even taking his constant kitty mouth meowing into consideration. He's a nuisance, quite frankly, and a known troublemaker. He's too smart for anyone else's good but his own and he likes it that way. He can walk into a room and cause complete chaos within 14 seconds before sauntering out in a blaze of nonchalant feline glory, hide for the 20 minutes that it takes for me to calm the dogs down again and reappear, as if on cue, for a fur flying, repeat performance just as the dust is finally settling. Put it this way- If pot stirring was an Olympic event, he'd be a gold medal champion.
I mean, don't get me wrong. I love Scribbles. Every once and awhile. Just usually when he's sleeping.
Suffice it to say, I'm not a cat person. Once Mr. Kitty passes on into Animal Heaven (or back to the sulfurous pits of Satan's Lair from which he came) I don't EVER want another one. I mean it. I'm done. I refuse to deal with clawed up furniture, litter boxes, and every other bit of mayhem that comes along with that particular species of supposedly domesticated mammals.
I can honestly swear that I am completely impervious to the charm of kitties. Here's the proof; Right down the street from us, there's a sign out front of a house that reads "Free Kittens." Hubby, who is a tried and true cat lover, made the telltale, "Awwwwwww," when we passed it. I responded with, "Oh hell no! Free kittens! Psssh! Might as well read 'Free Poltergeist'! No way am I inviting that kind of evil into my home."
Now, I'm sure you're judging me pretty harshly at the moment, but bear with me. I'm getting to the happy-go-lucky, oh, how I love canines portion of the story.
My boo boo baby bear dog Sasha is a stout, 3 year old Shih Tzu that's been perfectly trained. Aside from her strange, inexplicable, anti-social desire to "kill, kill, kill" random friends, several extended family members, and, of course, Scribbles, she's a good seed. She even sleeps in our bed, cuddled up next to me like a darling little stuffed animal. Her bold personality is far too big for her tiny toy breed body. She's fiercely protective and, even if it meant taking on a pit bull 15 times her size, I can almost guarantee that she would willingly lay down her life to protect her pack. She's a lover and a fighter. A true forever friend.
Sasha doesn't maim or destroy furniture, carpets or woodwork and she'd never dream of going potty in the house. That being said, she will shamelessly steal any food that's been unattended long enough for her to scarf down without so much as chewing. That's her one vice and I forgive her for it. She spent the first three years of her life in three different apartments with us and now that she's got a big house with an amazing backyard to roam around in, we decided that the senselessly spoiled creature needed a bigger-little sister. Or that was really just an excuse for me to add another pup to my proposed pack. Whatever.
Enter Godzilla, the mixed breed, Chester County pound puppy of my dreams. Well, except for the part where she was deathly freaking ill with pneumonia and desperately in need of urgent, extremely expensive veterinary treatment. Three weeks and over fifteen hundred dollars later, she's healthy as a horse and as rambunctious as a two year old toddler... with the mischievousness to match.
I feel like I birthed another baby because I'm having flashbacks to the early days of my son's life when my entire world revolved around diaper changes and ear splitting early morning wake up calls. Only now it's all about administering medicine, making sure she's eating enough to grow, crate training, housebreaking, saying "NO, NO, NO, NO" to damn near everything, watching her like a hawk lest she use the legs of my dining room table as a chew toy, taking her out every hour on the hour to go potty, playing fetch to dispel excess energy, and waking up at 5:00 AM to care for the baby-dog (before the caring for my boy and myself needs to take precedence). Recent conversations with my hubby have been limited to talk about poopy, pee-pee, feeding schedules, and, like any proud new parents, the sharing of tid-bits pertaining to the many adorable acts she's performed.
By the end of the day, I am completely exhausted and, oddly enough, grateful that I didn't have a human baby at my ripe old age of 30. I seriously don't know how I survived those first few years of 'round the clock care. I guess instinct took over and, after 12 years, time has blurred the edge of my memory. Still, I'm 100% certain that having a puppy is 200 times easier than raising a child from infancy. I know that within six months, Godzilla will be well on her way to Sasha-caliber behavior and all of this time and attention will pay off. My son, on the other hand, is still a frustrating handful.
Just do me one favor. When I'm itching for a new addition in a year or so, remind me of this blog. Maybe refreshing myself by re-reading a healthy dose of reality will curb my eagerness to expand the family again.
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