Wrong

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I overhear some of the other mothers at school plan going to some zumba class and I walk home thinking, ‘there’s something wrong with me because I don’t want to be involved with these things the others like to do.’ One, it’s social. Two, it’s exercise. Both are painful.

I think about wanting to curl up at home, out of the way. But, I also think about not wanting to be lonely. And that gets me thinking about the friend I used to have. The one who would come and visit me. And it was gentle and easy. I didn’t have to try. Sometimes my friend would pick me up and we’d go for hot chocolate and a stroll in Bradgate park. Again, easy and gentle. Two introverts socialising. Such a difference.

This makes me cry and feel broken. One, that I’m not like these others, these extrovert exercisers. Two, I miss my friend. I was nothing to her.  She doesn’t deserve my tears, but I hurt. I hurt. And I deserve them.

Introverts need interaction, too. But, it is that gentle sort. A visit to watch a film together. Music shared. A lazy drive. A quiet mutual rant to right the world.

No answer or cure for this. I’m not joining the zumba and my friend is never coming back.

My tears are justified.

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Just Call Me A Camel

Last week I decided that instead of “Facebook Status-ing” all my woes, that I would blog them instead – it seemed to be less of a waste of words, maybe a better use of them and the energy spent to write them, and I might get more appreciation for them than just casting them onto the navel-gazing world of Facebook where, really, no one cares. So, I have had two “blogging” not status-ing moments, and here’s a third.

Mornings like this one crush me. It’s difficult to explain to those who just don’t get it. I am overwhelmed, as a parent…the schoolrun…there is too much to remember…I’ve got to remember their bags, their homework and, when there are extras (like today, we were supposed to bring in a favourite book for World Book Day), it’s often just too much to handle. I love books (understatement). I should have been excited, but this was the proverbial back-breaking straw. Just call me a camel. I hadn’t remembered at all; I was already battling the weepiness that attacks me most days (especially in the morning).  I left my daughter’s school feeling (and knowing) once again I had failed. DON’T ARGUE WITH ME, DAMMIT! It was a failure; call it what it is.

I managed to get my son to playgroup, minus his bag (which I had forgotten) and all the time him fighting me because he didn’t want to go today. I then quickly got back to the house to attempt to find The Velveteen Rabbit (one of my daughter’s favourite books that I used to read to her quite a lot) in order to rush it back to the school so she wouldn’t be one of the only children that didn’t bring in her own book. But, another failure… I tried to find it. I failed.

As a parent, I constantly fail. Again, don’t you argue with me! It is failure. FAILURE!  And, when they are throwing their tantrums and treating me and each other like poo, I crumble. I fail. Do not tell me that I am being too hard on myself. Do not LIE to me!

There is no happy turn at the end of this post like the others. No redemption of it at the finishing line. Don’t look for it. Today, reduced to sobs that wrack and ravage my soul, I am going to wallow. Today I am going to let the Waterfall take me, because life – and parenthood – sucks! Don’t argue with me. Just don’t.