What I Want You To Think of Me

At the same time that I don’t want to need to ask your permission to be myself, I am feeling like I also need someone to tell me what I’m supposed to be and do. We have so much invested in what we perceive others are thinking of us. We’ll never really know what they think but boy do we all believe we’re Amazing Kreskins. Mind readers unite!

But with a public platform and a “brand”, there’s a conflict between wanting you to think of me in a certain way , and not wanting to care what you think and do my thing. I am trapped in a place between.

Fiona's fond of the Ravens flamingo on

I’m naturally codependent so I already want you to like me. Put the added pressure around creating a “face’ and a “thing” that you will like when all I really want to do is just be me. As a person who feels she is way more than can be condensed , I’m done before I begin. What I want you to think of me just got exhausting. And now I understand why these high school girls have suffered breakdowns over their “personas”. Poor things. In my shadow

Truthfully, I’m always concerned that I sound like a fake, That what I’m preaching isn’t what I’m practicing.Frankly, even when you think “I’ve got this”, and it seems like I’ve got this, I have it and the next minute, I don’t  But the truth is that I tell the truth always. And for that fact, I’ll never be a fake. Just a human being with an ebb and flow of doubt.

Walking the line in the monkey shoes on

Foot nailed to the floor, I continue to listen to everything everyone says to me as I cull my important thoughts and passionate rants into something that seems to represent me. I am looking for the me that I like to be. This will all get easier once I’ve decided which me to stand in. I just need to decide. This is all low self-esteem hangover stuff.

My kindest wish for you is my hope that you know and like yourself today and everyday.

The Spilled Milk

I think the number one thing I feel guilty for in raising my kid is all the times I yelled about the spilled milk. Yes there’s bound to be spills. Yes, my boy was a spastic child doing his spastic thing. And yes, as Big Bird sings on Sesame Street, everybody makes mistakes. But for the love of Pete, the apple juice and grape juice and milk that have poured down on my clean kitchen floor time and time again. And all those dried sticky puddles under the table legs. They always just aggravated me. Like being mugged just as you are entering a nice restaurant.

Depending on the day, I can be a little more or less irritated about the spillages. I have to stop everything that I’m doing to hurry and grab a thirsty towel to take care of that wet unnecessary mess that is still pouring off the table onto the floor as I am fetching the towel. I have yelled. Many times. I always regret it. That’s just bad parenting. It was an accident, right? Even when it’s the third time this week.

art in the kitchen on spilled milk on

What do you do? Sippy cups forever is my first thought. But I didn’t want to give him a complex like “night-time underwear” would. I think for a while we banned all beverages at the table. Why not? He drinks it and then refuses to eat his dinner because he’s full anyway. Fiona's backwash on spilled milk on


And then, after I’d written the most of this, trying to find a way to begin again, not wanting to keep doing this when my baby girl grows old enough to have an open cup, he spilled the pitcher. The entire pitcher of grape juice. I am often aghast at the complete lack of sense that a 9-year-old boy has. Why wouldn’t you just move the pitcher on the counter while you’re digging in the fridge for the (whatever it was)? And I yelled. Sigh.

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So busy these pasts couple days working to actually feel like I’m making progress. Going to do this and finding I still have to take care of that. I cleaned up the craft room so that I could start another project only to find the un-ironed clothing from months ago sitting there with cat hair on them. So many layers of leftover work.

There are boxes and piles of papers and cards and photos and art supplies here and there. Leftovers from people I was and people I thought I might be. Layers of clutter and indecision. Consideration and indecision are my masters. And I am left in the chaos in between.

layers on

As every purposeful task seems to hinge on a previously undone one. As I stumble on another layer, a wadded up incomplete project in a shelf corner, half of me wants to be OK with, “Oh but you had a baby”. But the other part wants to cry “BS”. There’s a pattern of sabotage here.

So I pulled out that ironing and began to iron only to find that at least four shirts had spots on them. Back downstairs they went to be treated. My hard work recently to shed a few pounds worked and I was cheered to try on clothing and begin the fall wardrobe change over. But that could and would have been easily thwarted with that feeling of being bloated and bulge. It seems I missed out on wearing lots of my clothing because I gave up on myself at a certain point. I can’t wear this and that dwindled my wardrobe down to a handful of OK pieces. I am going to say that shut down of possibilities happens in other areas as well.

Out the barn door on layers on

I think there’s a system of abundance and creativity that gives over to doubt and forgetfulness. I never see what I’ve accomplished. I don’t follow through completely and keep on task. I am made of layers of doubt and resentment and shame. And it’s everywhere. It’s on my body and in my closets and in my head. I’m listening harder to the reasons and excuses I come up with when I touch something or don’t touch something. And “I don’t know how to” and “ later” are two give-aways that this is the manifestation of my stuck and dealing with this particular thing is exactly what I need to be doing.

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