Entry #685261, added on 01-25-10 @ 10:43 am EST
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I feel fat. This, after a weekend of shameless gorging. My sister came for a visit, an impromptu idea that her husband had as she was going mad with the children at home, so she came here for an overnighter without her family. She brought along two big paper bags filled with goodies from the Dutch bakery near her house and when I saw them, I was instantly giddy. Their apple fritters are amazing, dense and sugary, with crispiness in the right places and the right amount of cinnamon. Their danish are also delectable; round and fluffy like cloud-shaped disks, filled with cherries and coated with a veil of icing. She knows I love their stuff, so she stopped there on her way here. As a result, I feel fat, and deservedly so. When it comes to pastry or dough, I have no control. The scale says I have gained three pounds over the course of the last few days. I choose to believe it's lying.
The visit itself was enjoyable, with the expected soul-searching and analysis of our respective childhoods. It never gets old. Both she and my other sister, K. are in the midst of blaming and despising our parents for their mistakes, while I seem to have moved a little past. I monopolized the anger for twenty good years and have only now come to realize that it's useless, whereas they're both only beginning to see the problems and have decided to get mad now. As I said to my sister K., who called me last Friday to tell me about the huge fight she had with our mother the night before, there's no point to letting yourself getting bogged down in the mistakes of others. I said that she was going to make mistakes as a parent just as I surely will, and it's going to sting quite a bit if our children decide to hold it over our heads forever, because parents are grown children with flaws. They were hurt just like we are, and they are filled with all the anger and sore lessons that their parents taught them. No, you shouldn't just accept it if they are ridiculously self-serving or mean-spirited, but letting the anger and blame own you in your adult years is just more child abuse, but the kind you permit and even encourage. Our mother is a hurt child, and what's more, she's a manipulative hurt child, but rather than let myself get too bent of shape about it anymore, I've accepted that she'll never be the kind of mother I'd needed in my formative years. She's barely the kind of mother I need now, actually, but she is who she is and it rarely occurs to her that she should accept responsibility for the things that hurt us. In her mind she did the best she could, which is a little too convenient, but it's also unchangeable. My sister P. said that if it weren't for our dad, she'd banish our mother from her life for good, and I believe her. To my knowledge two of my aunts and uncles are no longer on speaking terms with their sons, which I find incredible, but it goes to show that you can cut your parents out of your life without blinking, and that it is a trait which may be part of the DNA. I don't know what my aunts and uncles did to warrant their banishment, and I think they're all basically swell, but I never lived with them and I don't know the history. Every story has two sides.
As is my mother's way, because she's ' on the outs' with my sisters, she's been calling me more and speaking in perky, almost friendly, tones. I am totally on to her, but as I don't see her much, I don't care. My way of dealing with my mother is fairly simple, now: if she says something I don't like, agree with, or understand, I call on her on it and I don't bother with subtlety. She knows that I'm that close to completely disrespecting her, so she has recently begun to employ the use of humour to deflect my vehemence, which I take as her backing down. It works for me. As I told her in my last major argument with her, if she wants to make it that she has no one in her life in the future, she just needs to continue acting the way she does, because I'm an adult now and I am under no obligation to tolerate her nonsense. If she chooses to behave respectfully toward me and those closest to me, then there will be no problem, but make no mistake: if she tries to use her old tactics of manipulation, she's out. Life is too short to dwell on the toxic relationships.
So, the visit with my sister was actually pleasant, and we meandered through an antique shop, went for coffee at the cafe across from the skating rink, searched for the perfect bedspread for her son's room (and came up empty). I made her spinach risotto, green salad with baguette for dinner, and blueberry crepes for breakfast and she seemed relaxed and grateful. She remarked that my house is quiet and comforting, which is ironic and kind of funny, but I'll take it. The wee one was constantly on her, with her arms laced through my sister's and with rapid looks of adoration every few minutes. She said to me, Don't worry mom, I love you, too, but Auntie Polly's here today and right now she's special!. I wasn't hurt by it at all. I actually like that my girl loves her extended family. I have always felt sad that I'm not closer with my own aunts and uncles.
Last night, after watching 'Dexter' (M. and I have an unhealthy addiction to that show), I came to my room and almost began to believe I smelled spring. It is January, but rather than mountains of snow and freezing temperatures, it is six degrees and raining. This is very unusual around these parts and I have to say that we haven't had a real winter 'blast' yet. I'm not complaining, necessarily, but it is odd that other countries are experiencing snow and frigid air when they normally don't, and we have been relatively untouched by it. Again, I'm almost grateful for the reprieve, but it also concerns me. I do not believe that the threat of global warming is unreal. Each winter I see more evidence that things are changing. I am glad that my car is now shining from the sheets of rain that have rinsed the grime away, and I am glad that I will not have to wear my winter boots to school as they are big and clunky and make me feel like I'm going to mad because my feet feel claustrophobic.
My friend C. told me the other day that she thought about my question What are your top five passions? I was impressed that she'd actually given it any thought, but she listed them off: dancing, animals, films, family and...she looked embarrassed and seemed to be struggling to find the words. Then, she shyly said, those moments, the ones that stick in your head, the random, carefree moments in which nothing but the present matters and there is only happiness, laughter and contentment. I am passionate about those moments and make a point in identifying them to myself when they happen. I had to admit, I was impressed by that one.
Another woman at school told me that she likes to write poetry, particularly as a way to deal with missing her children who live on the west coast with their own families. I mentioned this site to her and told her that she would probably love it because there are good people here and that each of them share an interest in expression through writing. Then, I began to feel strange about it, because having someone who knows me read my poetry is one thing, but having them read this journal is another. I am far more comfortable talking about my life with people whose faces I don't know than someone I see on a daily basis. Isn't that strange? I am myself more in this journal than anywhere else but only with people who have never heard my voice, seen the way I walk or know how tall I am. What a bizarre arrangement. I'm a fairly open person but the idea of anyone in my 'real' life reading this unnerves me. She doesn't know what my handle is, and if she asks, I will hesitate in telling her, and not because she isn't a lovely person, because she truly appears to be. I would hesitate to let anyone 'real' read me, I think. Which begs the question 'why do you have a journal, then?' The answer is 'I don't know'. I like it, feel like I'm releasing something when I'm doing it, and I also need a place to write each day where the words come easy. It's therapeutic and it is sometimes exciting to see a sentence that I wrote that seems like actual writing. I read all my favourite journals here and know I need to read them in some small way. Fiction doesn't interest me as much as the life happenings of others do. If one of my 'real' friends had an online journal, I'd want to read it, but if they were to say something disparaging about me, I'd be wounded. The thing about journaling is that honesty is essential, but I know that not everyone can handle it. That's why it's better to have strangers read it. They can handle the truth because it doesn't affect them in any way. Their support is genuine as is their disdain, and even if neither are wanted or needed, you don't take it personally when they give it. So, if she chooses to become a member here I may opt to make this journal accessible by passkey only, at least, until school is out. I don't want to have uncomfortable conversations in a crowded lunchroom about that argument I had with M. the night before, or how my PMS is making me consider taking up mass murder. There are lines in the middle of these things that should never be crossed. I might be jumping the proverbial gun, though. She might not join or even remember the conversation. No need to get defensive just yet.
The wee one has a bit of a chest cold so I kept her home from school. She's insisting that she's fine, in between fits of crackling coughs, and she's gone from being indifferent about it to bursting into tears because it's 'big gym day and I'm missing it!'. Me, if I were sick with a cold, I would happily stay in my pajamas and lie in bed reading 'The Poisonwood Bible' which is taking forever to get through because, I'm sorry, five-year-olds just don't talk like that so I'm having trouble staying committed, but I intend to see it through. As it is, though, I'm reasonably healthy and there's no way I can justify calling in sick to myself unless I actually am. Also, it's kind of spring-like out there, and I am kind of fascinated by it in the way I'd be fascinated by snow falling in June.
There's one danish left. It'd be shame to let it go to waste, right?
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