… whoa, ooh whoa… Wish it were Sunday…
You know, I’ve not said much as of late.
Today my 3 1/2-year-old daughter has an intake appointment with a therapist.
I’ve written and deleted several sentences to follow that statement. How she’s stressed out, from what I can see. How I want her to be able to get through her worries and frustrations, live a better life than I did. How therapy has helped her brother, my sweet B, so much these past months.
I struggled with feelings of failure. It felt - and feels - as though I’ve failed them already. If I’d done my job, my children would not be seeing a THERAPIST more often than their FATHER. If I’d done my job correctly, I’d have been able to keep my mother away from their father, keep her out of all our lives. If I’d have been able to protect us all, my children wouldn’t be…
… they wouldn’t be like this.
And then I remember how far my son has come, with his therapist. How his confidence has grown, and the few issues I’d been concerned with have been resolved. How he is learning to deal with his feelings & emotions & confusion at the big, wide world - which is more than I can say for most adults (yours truly included).
This might be all right. My wee ones, they trust me. They trust that I will make the right decisions, keep them warm and safe and fed and loved. Maybe I could trust me a little in that department, too.
Wish my girl some luck today. And maybe her momma, too.
What a day.
I imagine cake pops are in our near future.
Oh, dear.
Is a double-edged sword.
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That awkward moment when your best friend is pissed the fuck off at you, and you feel guilty, thinking it’s for good reason?
Yea, that.
Shit.
When you realize that you’ve been manipulated to the nth degree, and your best friend has said some really ugly things, because she didn’t get her way?
Ugh. Worse.
Shit shit.
This day is over. (At least we had forts and sledding down the stairs.)
Next day, please.
Today is Momma & Son Day. We walked home from school hand-in-hand (as is our way), and we took turns taking pictures of things. I took a picture of him. He took a picture of the sidewalk. I took a picture of the sky. He took a picture of me.
After being so patient while I spent two hours scrubbing the floors, I grabbed his hand and made for the linen closet. “Let’s build a fort!!” I announced. Working together, we managed to make it almost as large as the living room.
This? Is a happy child. He hasn’t left his fort except to grab a muffin and an apple, and to share a congratulatory hug & high-five.
Why yes, I’d love nothing more than to trudge through the freezing rain with my younger child to go retrieve my older child from kindergarten.
I’d love. Nothing. More.
(Bitching about winter weather is what makes me an Oregonian.)
This child. Dressed herself. Pink hair bow. Pink shirt. Pink pants. Pink undies. Pink tutu - because no outfit is complete without one.
The black and grey polar bear outfit I laid out, while cute, was no match for this bubble gum concoction.
“Momma, do you have pink socks I can borrow? I can’t reach my sock drawer.”
Le sigh.
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