Once I swallowed the small gold cross my grandmother gave me for making my confirmation. It came out in my poo. At that moment, I knew I was going straight to hell.
When it comes to parenting, I have no fucking clue what I am doing. Usually winging it. I know I will fuck my kids up ... hopefully not too much, not enough that they need therapy.
I have needed LOTS of therapy. Oodles. I knew something was wrong when I was twenty years old and just wanted to die so badly. I went to this therapist who took down my entire drug and alcohol history, which took two sessions. I never went back, because (quote) "My depression has NOTHING to do with how much booze or pills I take." (!!!)
Around that time, I worked in an ice cream shop. The uniform looked like aqua pyjamas, so mortifying. I was stoned every shift, spun out and freaked that I served this strange sweet goo for a living. Slowly. Ve-ry slowly.
My twenties are a rich minefield for stories. Sometimes, I have sat with my sisters and they say "Tell us a story." And I tell them something so preposterous, so terrible, so outlandish .... we get the dog-whistle laughter going at some of my atrocious predicaments. Can't believe I made it through alive. If I ever wrote a memoir, I'd have to disguise it as fiction.
I went to pump today and pumped it So. Hard. I just want to kiss my guns right now.
Tonight I taught Max how to melt chocolate in the microwave. After he sat there and had licked his plate clean, he solemnly said: "Mum thank you so much for telling me this. I will never forget it." Just as gravely I turned to him and said, "Max, you are so welcome my champ." Then we turned back to the television.
Spoke to both my sisters today. After reading my post, Linda rang up, laughing, saying ... "Is somebody a widdle bit tired??" And Leigh was all with the tough love: "Fucks sake Eden, this baby is one. Not a four-month old - he should not be crying like this. Are you going to do something about it or still be talking about it when he's two??" I LOVE my sisters. She advised me to throw all of his dummies (binkies) out ... so I did. The liberation. I'm reclaiming my parent power - when he wakes in the night I've been scared of him! No longer. I even gave him his bottle before he went to bed, no more bottles in bed. He cried (actually, hollered and howled for an hour before falling asleep.) I may be in for some tough nights, but there's light at the end of the tunnel. I'm going to do the crying it out thing, I know it's the only way. If I go in there and soothe him, he just cries louder.
I feel better. Thank you. I emailed everyone who left a comment .. it's my new thing. If you ever want to email me, it's edenriley at gmail dot com
Feel free to de-lurk, anyone. Especially if I know you in real life *cough* (Because IP tracker programs are pretty amazing now and they show actual address of people visting blogs ... as in, streets and towns. Who knew!)
I'm getting a new tattoo. Maybe a Boab tree, maybe a singing bird in a blossom tree. Any suggestions?
When Dave got home tonight, I excitedly told him about the power reclaim, the dummies in the bin, etc. He told me this was not a good idea, shouldn't he have a say in it.
A SAY IN IT? WHY? He doesn't get up for the screaming child at all! What is this "say in it" of which he speaks??!!
Suddenly, I thought of a much better place to stick Rocco's dummy. Starts with D and B and ends with aves umhole.