To those of you out there who have survived having teenaged children, tell me it gets better.
Lie to me if you have to.
I dreamed about the old house last night. House being a relative term here. It was a single-wide park-model mobile home. An old school mobile, not like the “manufactured home” we live in now. It was somewhere around 780 square feet. Maya’s “bedroom” was 6’x7’. She didn’t even have a twin bed in there. My mom found an antique – not vintage, antique – hospital bed from the days when people on the whole were smaller. She cut some foam down to size for a mattress. It was barely a house by American standards, but in some parts of Mexico it would have been a damn palace.
That place was so tiny that when we had all of a dozen people in there for a birthday party, each person had to move if someone else needed to get somewhere. Like those cheap little plastic puzzles with one blank space and you have to strategically slide each piece one at a time to get it right.
In this dream we were hoarders. There were clothes unwashed and untended, piled and inviting rodents. I was very opposed to throwing the clothes away and argued (I don’t know with who) that they should be washed and taken to the Salvation Army. That would be the right thing to do! I was at once mortified by the condition of my home and somehow completely unable to change it.
The photo up top was borrowed from the interwebs. Ours wasn't quite that cute. Nor did it have that much natural light as it was inside a barn... I'll have to dig up some old photos to post. The funny thing is, we were happy there. At least I remember it that way. We had our bad days, but it was home.
The sun is so bright that...
The palm trees to the west are silhouettes, but to the east they shine back at you.
The sky is a perfect blue and the clouds are puffy white on top and shadowy gray on the bottom.
The mountains are a painted purple cut-out straight from a movie set.
Gracias and amen.
I went crazy this weekend. Friday night I was crying and saying things I knew in my head were wrong, but that play in my head like a broken record. Those things boil down to this: I am not worthy of love and no one worth a damn would love me. Saturday I yelled at Dan and started a fight. I was still feeling insecure.
For anyone late to the party here, this is all do to my father's complete lack of effort to be a part of my life while I was growing up. I was not worth his time. I have done therapy, but have been out of therapy for a couple months again now and the need for release of the crazy thoughts got built up. Obviously I need to go back to therapy, but scheduling it right now has become difficult. I will leave it at that.
I have decided though that I - we - need a vacation. Nothing big or fancy. Maybe we'll use spring break to go up to Sequoia, something I've wanted to do for a long time.
I just watched Hugo for the first time (I am terribly behind on movies, by my own standards).
This movie is absolutely FANTASTIC. If you love movies, this is a beautiful movie. And at the same time it is a love letter to movies. If you have been curious about it at all but haven't seen it yet, do so.
Steph(anie) - the mama
Dan - the man (met 1995)
Maya - girlchild (born 1996)
Austin - boychild (born 2006)