Original Shit...

My eldest Son's middle name is Peter; named after his Great Uncle that nobody ever got to know.

He turned thirteen today...

I had to ring up to say Happy Birthday to him because he slept over at my Parent's house. Again. I can't remember the last time he slept here on a Wednesday night. He's never here on Thursday mornings. That's the day he has his Clarinet lessons that my Mother provides him. He stays Friday and Saturday nights too, so he can go to his Musicianship class and Piano lesson- and so he can use the 'faster computer'.

He's always been a bit of a freak on the computer- in a good way of course. I can remember when he had only just turned two we were filming a video of him while he was using the computer; typing in passwords and playing a game about a little green alien called Cosmo. I wish we still had the video, even though he would consider it embarrassing today- especially the part when he informs us that his just done a poo in his nappy. That was the amazing part of it, though, that here was a baby- still in nappies- using the computer better than I could.

Not that this surprised us at the time; he could practically read by then as well. He knew the alphabet by twelve months and was reading Harry Potter 'in his head' before he started Kindergarten. No one really taught him; he just soaked up information like a sponge. When he was three he went on his first train ride with his Grandfather- my dad read out all the names of the stations to him and on the reverse trip read them out back to him perfectly. But I'm just bragging now- and moving past the point that I wanted to make...

Then there are the other nights he stays at Grandma's; because of an extra music lesson when it's coming up to Exam time (incidentally he just received a B in his 6th Grade Piano Exam), or just so he can practice his scales because the only piano is at my Mother's house. It seems he's there more than he is at home. He probably only sleeps here three or four nights a week.

My Mother treats him better than she would have her own Son; if she had one. It's not to be unexpected; I did live at home with my parents until my Son was almost three- they and my Sisters helped me to raise him. What's ironic was that when I was in labour with him thirteen years ago my Mother told me to make sure that I didn't have a baby boy; because a boy was to go straight into the bucket. She said it jokingly I suppose but I know there was an element of seriousness to her suggestion. As a Kindergarten teacher it was her general opinion that most boys were naughty little shits that ate dirt- especially all of the ones that were called names like Matthew or Joshua- for some reason their names were what made them into naughty children. I'm sure it was a relief to her when I named my Son a name that had no bad teaching experiences associated with it.

Deep down my Mother is a card-carrying Feminist. My Sisters and I grew up on the slogan that Girls Can Do Anything. That was the reason my eldest Sister took Woodwork in high school instead of home economics; and probably why I took Technical Drawing myself, even though I have no aptitude for drawing; not even with a set square and compass...

I would love it if my Mother understood me. She seems to hold my feelings against against me when I show them to her, so I tend Not to very much. My Hubby needs to learn the truth about me too; though I know he would never dream of working his way through this story- not even out of curiosity. He probably doesn't even realise that he's one of the main characters. If he Did read it- apart from dying of shock or falling out of his chair- I think he would get the basic message that I love him with every fibre of my being but that he constantly frustrates me every day. There is always something that he does- or doesn't do- that shits me.

And I know I have to deal with that and can't expect him to change and suddenly become a Yes Dear kind of guy. I know that's what I want on some level; someone who doesn't have to be asked or cajoled into doing even the simplest of tasks. I guess having me twisted around his little finger those first few years were what undid Me. He knew the lengths and the depths that I would go (sink) to be with him. And even though I haven't been that person for a long time now, that was the foundation of our relationship- Me doing all the chasing, all the stalking and worrying and burning and hurting myself; it gave him the message that I didn't think I was worth any better- so why should he?

It's our own perspective of ourselves that we give off to the rest of the World; and feeling helpless or ugly or bitter has to be reflected somewhere- usually in the eyes of whom we wake up next to. And That's when you believe it. That's when you convince yourself it's the truth.

So what do I learn from this? That I have no self-esteem? Sure. I know that. But how do you move on and away from that realisation? How do you look in the mirror and like what you see? By saying you are a good person, good mother, good wife? By saying that you'll only have positive thoughts and only do positive things?

How do you get to that actual belief?

When is it that you wake up, look in the mirror and hear only positive thoughts- and not feel stupid at the same time if you actually try and reinforce those beliefs? I don't pretend to know the answer but I don't like to stop looking; pessimistic though I am I wouldn't quite call myself a Fatalist. Yet.

Things can get better; but it's been my experience that things only get worse- especially by delving into shit that worries you -you eventually dig up more shit that's even more concerning than was the Original shit that worried you in the first place...

You know, in all seriousness, I often think I have a brilliant mind- until I come up with shit like that.

Not that I'm not insightful. I'm full of insight. Especially when it concerns other people. It's only when it's me that I falter and don't have all the answers. Only me who seems wrong in oh-so many ways. People tell me that I'm a good listener who gives great advice- yet I ignore all my own advice like I'm some defiant teenager and the parent dishing it out all in one body.

Yeah; so I know the sort of thing I should be doing with my life- but I don't want to; so I tell Myself I can't long enough til even I believe it. It's like my future's mapped out and what I'm doing now is what I'll be doing in ten years time simply because that's how I've done it for the last ten. Taking shit. Thinking shit. Drinking shit. Feeling like shit. Maybe I'm afraid to grow up. Maybe That's why I've never called myself a 'woman'.

Maybe I want the childhood I denied myself from age thirteen- that was irrevocably lost at eighteen when I had my eldest Son. I just don't know.

I wish I were more insightful. I wish I wasn't afraid to be me- the me who everyone loves and admires and doesn't think she is ugly and needy. Cos that's how I want to feel.

And everything my Mother ever taught me just goes flying out the window; because deep down she raised us to be these creatures- for all her strong words of encouragement.

Yes; Girls Can Do Anything- but it's still a Man's World. And you've got to be afraid of him.