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bitter vs. me.
It’s a battle. Maybe mine alone. (But I kind of doubt that.) It’s me in one corner and bitterness in the other. And sometimes I just want to lie down and hand my opponent the title. You win, I’d tell him. Just standing in my corner looking at you makes me weak. It’s a fight I’ve been in before. And one that I particularly am bent to repeat, it seems. I’m about as tired of bitter as I am of fear. Except I don’t seem to be fighting it nearly as well. I don’t think I know where to start.
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confessions of a bad soccer mom
I am a bad soccer mom. I purposely park the stroller at the end of the field where no one else is. I usually don’t stroll right up to the line of canvas foldable chairs and picnic blankets placed down the sidelines. I’m not that mom that the whole team knows and who hugs and high-fives all the little players as they exit the field. That’s not me. I don’t know why exactly. I don’t dislike those people. Shoot, I don’t even know those people. I think maybe I feel inadequate. I am usually late. Soccer uniform-clad kids rushing down the hill before Kevin and I wheel the double stroller down…
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The Dentist
Last week we experienced what I will call A Terrible Dental Experience. And all because of my former arch nemesis – fear. But this time it wasn’t my fear. It was London’s fear. (Is the same principle about sins of the father passed to the son true for sins of the mother passed to the daughter?) Because this kid looks like me. (I wish I could locate photographic evidence. You would be convinced. I’ll start looking. I promise.) And, in this area at least, this kid acts like me. Although I feel sorry that she looks like me – teenage years were not kind to my sense of self in…
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Fear
I have allowed fear to rule my heart for most of my life. I don’t mean that “most of my life” in a cliche way. Or even in a “most of my adult life” way. I mean most of my life. As in since I was eight years old. Around the time I was eight I developed some hyper-fear that my mother was going to die. I became obsessed. Obsessed. As in every night I crept down to my parent’s bedroom. I hovered beside my mother’s bed. And I watched her. Two sleepy eight-year-old eyes peering just over the bed covers at my resting mother. I just stared at her.…
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The Edge
(This is not a post about U2. Sorry Jane.) I think I live on some precarious edge. Like – right next to a cliff. (You know, like the little old man in Up who wanted to plop his home right down beside the ravine, the waterfall, the danger?) I live there. Or at least, I have been camping there for far too long. And the view is alright, I guess, but the effort and the stress of living right on that edge is wearing me down. And another thing. Because I live so close to that edge I find it really hard to maintain stability. To find a firm footing.…
