Failure

Like most high-achieving individuals, I base a lot of my sense of self-worth on what I do.  Related, I base my own evaluation of my success as a parent on my children's experiences. 

In looking at negative experiences there are, indeed, some experiences I cannot control.  Those are the source of much grief for me as a mother. 

And then there are those experiences for which I could control.  Today, I believe, was one of them.

I took my baby daughter to the hospital and left her there.  I walked in on my own two feet and out on the same feet.  I made the choice to do this, and there is a part of me that feels like it has died inside because I have failed.  I had to do most of this alone because my husband had to go back to work. 

Typical me?  Able to withstand anything.  Already withstood everything.  Just another day and experience.

Today, I feel as thought I may not make it.

Logically, I can go through all the shit that tells me I have not failed.  Logic does not apply in these types of situations.  Right now, it's the series of photos and experiences and memories running through my head that matters.  It's the tiny little angel with her first Easter bonnet at age two.  And the way I always made sure her clothes were clean and matched and that although we were living on one salary, I shopped so that she would not look like what she was:  a foster child.  Bows in her hair to match her clothes.  Books to develop that incredible IQ.  A room filled with furniture that MY mother worked and saved her money to buy for me.

I remember when we finally took her out of her crib at age three and put her in a big girl bed.  She was late but the crib was her safety.  But we'd had her long enough that it was time for her to make that move.  From her crib, she would call me each morning to come and get her out.  When she moved to her bed, she continued that same routine even though she could easily get out on her own. 

I remember taking her to the beach for the first time.  She had been burned in a bathtub before coming to us, and although the pool at the hotel was such a draw to her as a child, she was deathly afraid of it.  We worked gently and carefully with her until she would tolerate the water and even forget herself occasionally and enjoy it.  And every time, she would have a bowel movement in her bathing suit forcing us to leave to clean her up.  She had been potty trained quite easily for some time, but her gut reaction was to panic, and her gut responded in kind.

I remember the first time she waddled away from us on the beach in her bathing suit.  She was precious, and I was determined not to let her past create negativity in her future.  I failed.

She is still afraid of water, even her own shower.  She's afraid of being alone, even in her own house.  She's afraid of using public restrooms without someone going with her.  And I just left her with people she does not know in a place she's never been where she'll sleep alone.  There were two other children her age on the floor, and one was being discharged today.  Therefore, she will be there with one other child.  Possibly, eventually, she'll be the only child. 

I forgot to tuck a note in her suitcase telling her I loved her.  Even though I just did what I said I would never do.  What I HAVE never done.  Leave her with people she does not know. 

There are times when I wish I'd never become a parent because of the heartache involved.  Now that to protect my own children and to care for them, I've made myself so sick that it's unclear if I'll recover.  When I think of the things I endured as a child--what made me think I could protect one child, much less my brood, from all that is out there.  Including myself. 

I took my second Valium of the three-a-day allotment more than an hour ago.  This is more than Valium can handle.  This is more than Valium can erase, even momentarily.  And my other children have returned home.  I have to put on the face that tells them it's all going to be okay. 

When I have no idea in hell whether or not it will be.

Trying to Leave Things Behind

August 5, 2013

 

1:53 pm

 

At the mountain house….

 

Well, I’m seven minutes away from the time I planned to leave.  Even set an alarm.  Woke up before it (8:30) and I’ve got another good hour before I’ll be on the road.  Probably not a problem, but not what I had planned. 

 

I just had to turn the fans on for the first time since I was here.  AND hike up my skirt while I stood in front of the largest one.  Dear Jesus.  Part of the deal (or it should be) is that you clean up behind yourself.  With my mild (and I mean MILD) OCD tendencies, I HAD to not just hit the high spots. 

 

The entire time I was here, I had “sugar on my feet”.  Supposedly, that was what I told my Aunt Ruth when I was three years old and was visiting at her house.  Rural Georgia.  Dirt roads.  Country.  Dirt yard.  All to equal dirt on the floor. 

 

But I had lived with my mother.  And I had rarely felt “sugar on my feet”.

 

The “sugar” was sand from the yard.

 

Although that is a story that I’ve been told, not a memory that I have, I still don’t like the feeling.  I know why.  I know where the utter distaste for grit has come from.  And 44 years later, there’s still a neural pathway in my brain that reacts to sand, grit, whatever on my feet and elsewhere.

 

I have to quit a minute to go check on the damn bird food I’m cooking. <sigh>

 

I’m back.  It did not occur to me that it would take a freaking hour for a pot of water with some sugar in it to boil.  I CAREFULLY put the sugar in (none on the floor).  And made sure I was making enough to fill up the bottle in the frig for its purpose (a note on it would be nice, but I can figure things out).  And be damned if I haven’t been cooking for birds FOR-EV-ER. 

 

Why didn’t I do this last night?  I don’t know.  Because now it has to cool before it goes back in the refrigerator.  Be damned if I’m not going to be here….  Wait.  My IQ just kicked in.  I’ll put it in the jug and put the jug on the carpet in front of a fan.  That will cool it more quickly.  IQ.  Common sense.  Who knows?  Getting by and getting home is what I call it.

 

And a funnel.  There are more things in need of funneling here, and there’s no funnel to be found.  Food has to be put into hummingbird feeders (my current recipe).  The recipe has to be put into a jug.  I’ve found the blender and will use it to pour.  But there is a clear need for a funnel.

 

So back to the sugar on the floor.  We were the last ones here.  My oldest son cleaned and cleaned.  I had everyone cleaning at one point.  And I’m as neat as a pin.  So whence cometh the sugar? 

 

I swept the laundry room and kitchen.  I swept the great room and hallway.  I took rugs out and knocked the dust and dirt out of them.  Then, I got out the Swiffer that we’d bought for the cabin just last week.  “Leave it better than you found it” is one of the “rules,” so we bought the house quite a few things that probably won’t be noticed.  One was a Swiffer.  Dry pads and wet pads.  And the wet pad package we bought had two pads left.  That means my son used TEN last week.  Two was all I needed, though.  One in the laundry and kitchen.  One in the bathroom. 

 

Oh my God.  I'll post the pictures later when it's easier to do.  Not from a wifi but from home.

 

Now prior to this time my mild OCD had me not just cleaning up behind myself… (gotta go check the stove)…

 

What a hot mess.  For future reference, blenders are not good for pouring.  Some of the hot sugar water ended up on my hand.  So, I resorted to the coffee pot which worked perfectly.   Except that I’ve already washed it.  Now, I have a pot, a blender, and a coffee pot to wash PLUS the countertop and sink to clean.  AGAIN.

 

Anyway, when I cleaned the bathroom, I CLEANED the bathroom.  Like a woman cleans a bathroom.  My “leaving it better than you found it” even involved cleaning the inside of the shower.  Naked.  Indeed, some men probably would have paid good money to have seen that, but it needed to be done, and I couldn’t stand to leave it that way.  Peace and paradise must be clean.

 

The hummingbird food is cooling as we speak.  Damn.  I’m going to have to drive like a bat out of hell to get home when I wanted to. 

 

Anyway, I took pictures, mainly to show my son, of the last two Swiffer wet pads that I used.  Now, I’ve been here four nights.   I’ve gone out ONE time.  I am NOT responsible for what I saw when I looked at those pads. 

 

So, now, the cabin is out of sugar.  In great need of a funnel.  And I had hoped to have extra time to drive in to Spruce Vegas (thanks to my college friend for the rename) to the Walmart in hopes that those country folks aren’t attracted to the same color of lipstick that I use (since it seems to be in short supply in Columbia).  Hottie.  That’s my color.  And I’m in short supply.  And I still have to clean up the kitchen AGAIN.  Make the bed (sheets are in a dryer that is afraid to get too hot and therefore takes FOR-EV-ER).  And drag my stuff back down the stairs.  Along with closing up the windows.  Taking out the trash. Turning off the water (ewwww, in a scary place downstairs) and locking up.  That should do it.  Then, me and my newly rediscovered self will head home.

 

Spruce Vegas Walmart will require a trip BACK into this place to drop off what is needed.  Jesus.  Why am I like I am?  I can’t leave it without what it needs!

 

And I broke a wine glass.  I wasn’t planning to buy that from Walmart, but perhaps it would keep me from having to do it elsewhere and having delivered to the owner’s office.  Back where I’m from.

 

I’ve finally quit glowing (I don’t sweat).  I need to fix my hair. Possibly wash dishes again beforehand.  With paper towels so there is nothing left to wash. 

 

And it’s 2:49.  And I just learned something new:  my curling iron cuts off by itself.  Went to fix my hair so that when my husband and I discussed how we were going to “revive” our marriage I’d look like a sex pot (hell, why not), and the curling iron is cold.

 

But the hummingbird food is not.  NOT cold.  NOT cool.  NOT anything anywhere close to anything but still hot. 

 

Damn.

 

Okay, so real-life confessions here:  I haven’t washed a dish, a piece of clothing (to include linens), wiped a countertop, cleaned a bathroom, swept a floor, run a vacuum, or made up a bed in…I don’t know how long.  I seriously don’t remember.  I’ve only been able to keep myself together.  No way could I do anything else.  Am I spoiled?  Hardly.  I’m privileged.  I’m blessed.  I’ve been sick, and the world has gone on around me, and I’ve had to let it. 

 

Curling iron should be ready for me.  Note to self:  Google “how to store hummingbird food”.  

 

3:26:  Sex pot hair.  Check.  Dishes washed.  Check.  Bed made.  Check.  Towels folded.  Check.  Almost all windows closed.  Most of my things in the car. 

 

Damn.  Guest book.  And the valium makes my hands shake. 

 

And the good news is the hot hummingbird food.  Genius IQ comes in handy:  I put it in an ice bath in the sink.  It’s cooling now. 

 

Conundrum:  Spruce Vegas Walmart or not?

 

3:33:  Cleared that up.  Nope.  No need.  Called the office assistant, who is apparently my new contact, and left a list with her.  Forgot to mention the wine glass. 

 

Told her to tell the owner thanks.  Heard it in her voice.  She knows.  She knows my error.  She knows my….  Well, she knows what she knows, and what she likely doesn’t know is that I am just not like that.  That’s not me.  It’s me, indeed, because it came out of me.  But it’s only me because of the damage done to me.  Damage that I always control.  Except for this time.

 

Damn.  Damn it all to hell.  Because that’s where it came from.  And that’s where it belongs.

 

I’m going home to try to fix my broken marriage.  And to try to keep it fixed amongst my broken children.  God help me.  God help us.   

 

As for my broken friendship, I’ve done my part.  And I can’t fix everything.  And be damned if a delivery of wine glasses to the office, even by someone other than me (it would HAVE to be someone other than me) would probably be misinterpreted. 

 

So, I’ll just have to owe this place a wine glass.  I hate that, but I guess the lesson learned for me is that not everything that is broken gets replaced by the person who broke it.  I was broken and left that way.  I had to fix myself.  And to be honest, I’ve done a damn good job considering the circumstances.

 

Post.  Then home.  Home sweet home.  Going to make it that way with a man who worships the ground I walk on (minus a few incidences).  The man who thought I was beautiful even when I was fat.  The father of my children.  The man who has loved me through so much.  Now, I’ve got to love him back again.  And try to put away this brokenness that keeps me from fully investing in a relationship that is 17 years old.

 

God, please help me. Can’t do it alone.

So this was the product:

This was the result of the kitchen.

 

This was the result of the bath!  Ugh!