I read Deep-Holes by Alice Munro last night. One of the unintended consequences of becoming a mom has been that reading family related stories has become painful. Many are close to the bone and coincide with what I obsess about.
The hole that most struck me in the story is the one of the father's incomplete love for his son. My husband (F)'s father found it easy to walk away from his 11 year old son, to remarry and start a new family and to never look back. They talk a couple times a year now. There was a time F said to me: "I don't understand why he wasn't interested in me. I was smart and talented. I was a great kid."
Now F's 15-year old son lives with us (One of two sons from his first marriage). I'm shocked that F feels the same way. He doesn't love him. I know he's not easy to love. He's a wigger who wants to 'smoke blunts and get pussy'. He's a crude character. I know this from monitoring his on-line life (and obviously seeing the kid daily). Sadly, I can't even get a voyeuristic kick, as it's dull and repetitive: blunts and pussy, blunts and pussy.
It pisses me off that I don't have the luxury of not giving a shit. Since we got him now, I've got to give it the ol' college try. The less affection F shows him, the more I step up my efforts and the more I lose respect for F.
I've even heard F say to him that he's costing too much money -- things a kid should never hear.
Maybe what I fear most is that I'm that kind of mother myself.... The one who loves myself a little bit more than my own son. I hope I never get tested so that I don't have to know for sure.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Young Boyfriend Dream
I had a 'young boyfriend dream' last night. It's been with me all day in the same way that being kissed does when if you're 13. Maybe now too. I can't remember. The boyfriend was so nice. It was shocking because he was much too good looking to be so damned nice. He told me it was because he was from the South. I've never been to The South and he didn't look like Southern boy but more like a young Lou Reed.
I woke up and told my husband (F). A few minutes later, F asked me: "what kind of flowers do you like." He was jealous of my young boyfriend.
I wanted to talk to a good-looking guy and get seduced by him. I flirted on CL with a few, but the quantity and the masculine form of purely sexual desire makes me feel dirty quickly. The only conversation that went beyond "wussup" was with someone who's in an open relationship with his wife. Something about that is a million times worse than old-fashioned sneaking around. Maybe because I don't believe it can be as rosy as 'we have no secrets from each other'. I know I have to keep secrets from everyone. Who the hell do you have to be to have none?
I woke up and told my husband (F). A few minutes later, F asked me: "what kind of flowers do you like." He was jealous of my young boyfriend.
I wanted to talk to a good-looking guy and get seduced by him. I flirted on CL with a few, but the quantity and the masculine form of purely sexual desire makes me feel dirty quickly. The only conversation that went beyond "wussup" was with someone who's in an open relationship with his wife. Something about that is a million times worse than old-fashioned sneaking around. Maybe because I don't believe it can be as rosy as 'we have no secrets from each other'. I know I have to keep secrets from everyone. Who the hell do you have to be to have none?
Monday, July 7, 2008
Meet the New Day
Commitment to "suffering": That's what the husband and I refer to as the time that follows any drug-run. This one was relatively low-grade. Some vicadins -- no more than a couple a day for about 8 days straight. I've noticed that they really turn on me. At some point, I can't take enough to stop the anger. Never mind the immediate distance that opens up between my son and me.
My son, an unusually empathetic and sensitive child of 6 has a chewing problem. He chews on his shirts like a puppy. I blame my moods. When I'm feeling more okay, I try to make up for the times of distance by loving him to death, but I'm convinced he sees through the fakery; sees me trying too hard or trying too little -- both unnatural.
Now I remember when I was really strung out.... I still had a job, but each day, during lunch, I'd have to drive to the projects and get my fix. While waiting for the guy, I'd anxiously watch the pedestrians and wonder how they 'did it'. How did they just go about their lives. They just went to work and came home to their families. They didn't need the stuff that made going to work and going home an adventure in feeling in love.
Now I have that feeling about being a mother. I want to know how it is that mothers do it. In the same unnatural manner, I can't stop the awareness of my mothering... "here we are reading together, here we are playing a game... does he love me? Am I doing okay? Am I not worried enough about his cough?" Where are my instincts?
I'm drippy today as it's the first day of the 'suffering'. It's 12:17 and so far I've not done anything I promised myself not to do. I've not even smoked a cigarette. They've gone up to almost $7.00 a pack this week, so it's just as well.
My son, an unusually empathetic and sensitive child of 6 has a chewing problem. He chews on his shirts like a puppy. I blame my moods. When I'm feeling more okay, I try to make up for the times of distance by loving him to death, but I'm convinced he sees through the fakery; sees me trying too hard or trying too little -- both unnatural.
Now I remember when I was really strung out.... I still had a job, but each day, during lunch, I'd have to drive to the projects and get my fix. While waiting for the guy, I'd anxiously watch the pedestrians and wonder how they 'did it'. How did they just go about their lives. They just went to work and came home to their families. They didn't need the stuff that made going to work and going home an adventure in feeling in love.
Now I have that feeling about being a mother. I want to know how it is that mothers do it. In the same unnatural manner, I can't stop the awareness of my mothering... "here we are reading together, here we are playing a game... does he love me? Am I doing okay? Am I not worried enough about his cough?" Where are my instincts?
I'm drippy today as it's the first day of the 'suffering'. It's 12:17 and so far I've not done anything I promised myself not to do. I've not even smoked a cigarette. They've gone up to almost $7.00 a pack this week, so it's just as well.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Post 1.
Mike told me he writes a blog now. "No one reads it," He said. "I've been listening to a new album each day and reviewing it on my blog. It's become a real chore." I believe it. That's what I expect myself.
I thought I'd have to have something meaty to add to the whole thing... but I'm happy to just have something to take away. Specifically, working out my addictions without boring all who have been bored by them in the last 20 years.
Each night I go to sleep promising myself to wake up as a different person: An exercising, child-engaged, momly, deep-thinking, go-getting, good-cooking, iron-clad planning, drug-free, smoke-free, fashionably dressed -- and not from the junior department-- woman on the GO!
Each morning the promises begin to collapse on each-other. The first tugging at the next, until it's night and and I'm telling myself I'll be that person again-- tomorrow.
Before starting this post, the weed was already calling... promising more wit and flow in my post. It's virtually screaming at me now.
The first time I got off it all, I was 26. I'd done the detox circuit and the meetings and what worked was glomming onto this guy. We sat around acupuncture detox together with needles sticking out of our ears. There was nothing to do while you sat there so I stared at him because he was usually asleep. He looked bad-- lacking teeth, and dressed in an ambiguous hipster/ homeless way. He already had a big year off the junk and a couple of kids from his failed junkie marriage. I leaned on him hard and he needed me too. When he picked up the kids on the weekends, he had no idea what to do with them. I didn't either, but at least we were two.
We're married and we have a son now. One of the sons of his first marriage (now a teenager) lives with us as well.
So here is where I am.-- trying to locate the 'i' in this x-gen, druggie, designer, Jew, Russian, potty-mouth, mom, friend, wife and step-mom -- currently burning it on all sides. I'm hoping to find a little space for the myself in all this self-obliteration.
I thought I'd have to have something meaty to add to the whole thing... but I'm happy to just have something to take away. Specifically, working out my addictions without boring all who have been bored by them in the last 20 years.
Each night I go to sleep promising myself to wake up as a different person: An exercising, child-engaged, momly, deep-thinking, go-getting, good-cooking, iron-clad planning, drug-free, smoke-free, fashionably dressed -- and not from the junior department-- woman on the GO!
Each morning the promises begin to collapse on each-other. The first tugging at the next, until it's night and and I'm telling myself I'll be that person again-- tomorrow.
Before starting this post, the weed was already calling... promising more wit and flow in my post. It's virtually screaming at me now.
The first time I got off it all, I was 26. I'd done the detox circuit and the meetings and what worked was glomming onto this guy. We sat around acupuncture detox together with needles sticking out of our ears. There was nothing to do while you sat there so I stared at him because he was usually asleep. He looked bad-- lacking teeth, and dressed in an ambiguous hipster/ homeless way. He already had a big year off the junk and a couple of kids from his failed junkie marriage. I leaned on him hard and he needed me too. When he picked up the kids on the weekends, he had no idea what to do with them. I didn't either, but at least we were two.
We're married and we have a son now. One of the sons of his first marriage (now a teenager) lives with us as well.
So here is where I am.-- trying to locate the 'i' in this x-gen, druggie, designer, Jew, Russian, potty-mouth, mom, friend, wife and step-mom -- currently burning it on all sides. I'm hoping to find a little space for the myself in all this self-obliteration.
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