If I did emoticons, I’m not sure how I would render today’s mood in type. It’s a dark and angry mood undergirded by a depression spawned by my own genetic offspring.
Oh, I know, I’d render it like this: F@%K!!! But that’s not really an emoticon, is it. Just bad language poorly hidden.
I don’t care. Today I’m angry. Today, I am tired. Today, I no longer wish to be a mother. Just for today, I’d like to be a skinny young woman with car keys and a credit card and a pair of strappy sandals, and somewhere warm to go. Today, I am worn down by being an estrogen-challenged, middle-aged mother to not one, but TWO estrogen-loading, teen and nearly teen girls.
Anne Lamott once wrote something to the effect that she understood why women have children in their twenties, not their thirties, and certainly not their forties. It is so menopause and puberty don’t meet in the same house at the same time. Wisdom there. Wish I’d read it while I was still that skinny girl in strappy sandals and could have turned a thing or two on a dime.
Today, I understand why I was a loner in middleschool: I do not like pre and teen girls. They stink (yes, both literally and figuratively) and they are mean and they are meanest to the woman who loves them and understands them best. And, for some stupid ass reason, they think a syruppy “sor-ry” will get them off the hook for being a tremendously tiresome tyrannical tantrom-y (yes, I’m making that up) troll. I do not like them, Sam I am. I do not like them in my house, I would not force them on a louse. I do not like them in a tree, unless that tree is far from me. I do not like them in a box, unless it’s soundproof with 8 locks. I do not like them, Sam I say, I just don’t like them for today. I will like them again, I think I’m sure; I will like them once we all mature.
Strangely, that was cathartic. I may like them a little better already.