Drive-ins, Swimming, and All Things Summer

I'm not an easy person to like. I say that a lot. Most people see that as fishing for a compliment. I say it with the self realized evidence of the past several years. The one thing my Husband has admitted about first meeting me? He didn't really like me. He thought I was a "know-it-all". Most of the friends I have that stuck through the awkward stage? They'll say it took some time to "warm up" to the idea of being my friend. Most people will confess to me that they weren't certain about whether or not they could deal with me when we first met. . . Let that sink in for just a moment. Imagine being told for the better part of your late 20's early 30's that you are not the ideal, personable human being people befriend. Imagine being told regularly that you're "difficult" to enjoy. Now think about how that sits on the psyche. There's a good reason I don't reach out to people. There's a reason I don't go out of my way to go places, or throw parties, or even attend parties. Several reasons actually. The big ones come from what happened to me in my early 20's. The "little" ones come from the fact that I can't even get my own family to enjoy me, let alone strangers; so I just stay home. My children are difficult to like as well. Mostly because we spend so little time with people outside our own home. It's difficult to have play dates when no one wants to sit and talk to you as the adult. I stopped pretending I understand people in the middle of what was going on with me before. I stopped paying attention to whether people mattered when the Major was selling me as a commodity. It makes me difficult to like. I don't understand the purpose of small talk. I don't really care about gossip. I'm not all that interested in fashion, and the latest craze ( which should be evident by my inability to dress myself.), I don't know how to not be awkward. Awkward is kind of my default setting. I am out of place in the world. I don't fit in. I do better when I keep my mouth shut, but I end up dying a little inside because no one really knows who I am. I get an uncouth exuberance when a subject I know about is brought up. I feel personally insulted when people won't let me help them; because it happens so rarely that I can be useful. I feel a great deal of pain at the fact that my children are the wierdos because I can't make enough friends with children their age for them to have playmates. My heart breaks when they desperately want to play with someone, and I have made that impossible. There is a silent amount of guilt killing me because I am difficult to like. Yet if I pretend, and become likable, I also die a little inside. So, Parenting catch 22. Do you die inside because your children are lonely and unlike, or do you die inside because you're faking it? Maybe someday I will know the answer, and my children will forgive me for failing them in this area. Maybe.

Gooey S'mores & Chili Breath

I'm lost. Somewhere between the size 4 jeans, and the stretchy pants are the only thing that fit; I lost myself. Somewhere between newly married, and the confused sleep deprivation of a mother of multiples I lost myself. Somewhere between "I can totally run that 5k!", and "you want me to do something besides nap?!" I lost myself. Somewhere between the punk/ska, and the child friendly language of a kid's sing-a-long CD I lost myself. Somewhere between the red lipstick, and barely having the energy for a shower I lost myself. Now this isn't a pity party, but it is a realization that My identity is no longer the same. Though I long to be the person who had the energy to dance in the kitchen while I was cleaning, I also realize a lot of that is choice. I CHOSE not to dance in the kitchen with the mop while listening to music with language and messages too mature for my children. I CHOSE to spend time on the floor with them reading books while the housework piles up. I'm beginning to recognize that may not always be the best choice. For now it's a delicate balancing act of my OCD for a clean home battling my desire to give my children quality time. People will tell me that cleaning my home IS showing my children love. Well, have you met my children? They cling to me the way we all wish syran-wrap would stick to the dishes we attempt to cover. Their love language is both quality time, and quality touch. I do what I can with the time I've got, but when I'm up several times a night with teething children, and not drinking caffeine during the day? come on! when they take a nap; I take a nap. I feel the desire to bust out some of the old me. The part of me that could care less. The person who wore bright red lipstick because it was Tuesday. I don't think she's dead just yet. And as my youngest gets a little older I find time to do things like put on jeans instead of stretchy pants. Somedays I even remember the deodorant. I love my children, and I spent years believing that life had passed by the point in which I would get to hold them in my arms. I also love the person I was before. The passion that was my life, the fearless resolve with which I stated my opinions and beliefs. I spend a lot more time pleasing others now. Giving snuggles, giving loves, giving spoonfuls of food, giving the blue cup because the red cup is no longer desired. I even bite my tongue to keep civil relations with people I could honestly care less if they liked me, but I need to play nice with because my Husband needs that relationship. I just think that at some point I'm going to find myself, and everyone is going to have their minds blown when I start acting like myself. I may even become much more organized. Who knows! I can barely put together complete thoughts anymore, but don't you worry! I will get back into a pair of stilettos and red lipstick, and probably some clothes too. I suppose that it's part of being a parent to lose a piece of yourself. I wonder whether I'm doing it wrong. Whether my decision to stop being so much full color version of myself, and more of a muted pastel is worth it. Whether the desire for a more child friendly/age appropriate home has been a wise choice. If I've lost enough of myself that my children will think that the woman who wore whatever she darn well felt like, and had the courage to kick someone's arse with a simple tongue lashing ever really was me. I wonder if I've given up a part of who I was that made my husband fall in love with me. I question whether I let myself go so far that I got lost along the way? Perhaps it's time to reclaim some of that person. Perhaps, much as I discovered when trying to be a bank manager, I just don't fit into these shoes. Perhaps I really just need to stand in the shower for 20 minutes, and sing my heart out, and let the kids play in the toilet water while I actually put lotion on myself. Maybe I need to spend a little more time shaving my legs, and a little less time crawling around on the floor. While I justify letting myself get lost because I'm attempting to make sure I don't raise children who are self entitled jerks. . . I may be missing the point, and my mind. Maybe it's all just a crap shoot, and it won't make a difference in the end that I bothered.

And It Begins

So aparently You are not allowed to have a facebook account and not have a blog... Not really sure how I feel about that, but here goes. A BLOG, I am most disapointed. I expected some sort of mystical thing to happen. Way to be a let down.

Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was very independent, and learned quickly. She was able to do the right thing regardless of what others were telling her to do. She defended people who weren't popular and thought everyone was good. One day someone called her by a name she'd never heard before. They told her she was wierd even though she really wasn't. She suddenly realized that no one wanted to be her friend. That she wasn't being invited to parties. That when the other kids went outside to play they either left her out, or made her pretend to be the bad guy so they could beat up on her. She got very tired of this. Everyone told her she was wierd anyway, why not actually BE wierd. So she started doing things that were a little more odd and a little more odd. Pretty soon she really truely WAS wierd.
As the years passed people grew and started asking her why she was still so wierd, and hadn't grown out of it like everyone else. They still called her wierd. No one wanted her to change really. They love to put her down and insult her while she was trying to help and do good things. She moved away. Years passed and no one really saw her anymore. People heard about the things she was up to, but no one knew for sure. They never bothered to visit. She decided it might be a good idea to go home, and just see if things were as different as her Mother kept telling her they were.
Nothing had changed. She gave everything she had to the people who had been mean to her. She tried to show that she had grown and learned from the world. She showed all the new skills she'd discovered and the talents within herself. Suddenly the old insults came flying back. She was hurt. In an attempt to recover she went to a place she thought was safe. The people there had always been so accepting. They also possessed this 'wierdness' that she had had once. She was devistated and taken aback by the fact that these people would also call her the mean names she had heard long ago, and had created so much hurt. That word. . . That horrible word was spoken. with the "wierd" out of the bag she packed HER bags and left. It was clear no one understood. She left and went back to the world, which had embraced her 'wierdness' and made her feel accepted. They didn't seem to care out there. She determined she would probably not come home again. She had found a place where she belonged and there she would stay.