Recently, due to the age of my son and the rage I sometimes feel, I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents and how I was raised. Running with TNT for my father makes me think of him a lot. And it is hard to come up with happy memories. Which is unfair, because I know there must have been some. To be honest, it’s hard to come up with any memories, mostly there’s just a feeling of fear and guilt in the pit of my stomach, unconnected to anything I can put into words.

The people upstairs bang around a lot on their hardwood floors. It took a long time for me to realize why that made me want to grab the kids and hide under the bed, not breathing.

These things are things I need to talk about. Along with the positive, absolutely wonderful things that are going on. But to talk about one and deny the other has the ring of a secret. I hear my mother in the back of my head telling me not to talk about it with anyone. Not to mention it. And I can’t do that. The more I do the more I draw everything in, the less I talk about anything with anyone. And I can’t do that to my kids. So on my desk I’ve placed the secrets quote, and I’ve made up my mind to discuss what I need to, with the knowledge that for awhile it’ll probably be heavily negative. But once told most stories don’t need to be repeated.

I should probably follow through and try to be more anonymous, restart a blog without telling any of you where I’ve disappeared to. But it comes down to pride, as ridiculous as it may sound. These are MY experiences. I may not be happy with them, they may have sucked (and I’m the first to admit I had it better than most), but they are still what made me who I am, and I still was the one who survived them. In the end I can’t let fear of being caught stop me from relating my truth (good god, that sounds like such new-age crap).

I can not ask you for your discretion: I’m airing my dirty laundry for all the world to see. But I do ask that if you know my family, please keep in mind that we all have our bad moments. We are all trying the best with what we have been given. And you’re only hearing my side of the story, warped by my age at the time and immaturity, then and continuing to the present.

So, yeah, 2012, perhaps the year I can let my rage go, stop tensing up my back when someone asks if they can ask me a question, stop being so afraid someone will find me out, stop jumping when someone slams a door. Even if it doesn’t happen, there just isn’t any space left to hide this shit and it’s no place to raise children.

We move too fast and too easily through our lives now. We miss out on the spaces between events. I believe in the importance of pauses. I try to force these breaks: taking the train instead of the plane, walking most places with my kids, cooking dinners and baking from scratch. I want my kids to know that instantaneous does not mean best.

Family members have offered us deals on their older cars, have suggested various pre-made foods when they eat over (is my cooking not good enough?), to pay for airline tickets. They don’t understand that these are choices I’ve made based on something other than the monetary cost. There is a higher cost that I can’t explain without the shorthand of religion and faith.

Reed (2.5 yrs) is beginning to catch on to waiting. I let him watch too much TV—which in my mind right now is ANY—but when I tell him he needs to occupy himself for a little while he’ll generally find a car or crayon. I don’t expect this to last. I’m sure he’ll head off to school and quickly realize not everyone takes a full day to get to Boston. Not everyone takes a few hours to go to pick up groceries. But maybe I can instill in him some small seed that helps him know it isn’t always bad to wait. That you can want things for awhile and not suffer in the meantime. That the journey can be just as important and valuable as the destination.

Today sort of sucks. I’ve had people ask me what I find hardest in being a stay-at-home mom, and I always tell them that it depends on the day. Also, it’s worth it. Any given day it’s totally worth it.

Only, maybe not today.

Reed’s been sick with a stomach virus for a week now and I’m at the end of my “oh poor little boy is suffering and that’s why he’s so cranky” rope. I’m not being mean or anything (well, unless you ask him, there’s a whole “cookie” incident that we won’t get into), but he’s on his third episode of Sesame Street. I SWEAR we usually watch about 4 hours a week, and I try to keep it under that. Yes, I DO believe that television is the devil, if only just because of how it makes me feel when I’ve watched more than a little of it. And, yes, I do believe it contributes to bad behavior, and, no, you aren’t going to convince me otherwise. And, no, I don’t REALLY believe you’re a bad parent if your toddler watches more TV than mine. But I feel like a bad parent. I feel like a lazy parent who can’t find something else to do.

But I’m not beating myself up about it today, because, you know what? I’ve had it. Yesterday Reed had NO urine for about 7 hours. And when I told the doc she told us that we needed to up the fluids (oh my god as if I hadn’t been pushing Pedialyte every second of the day and following him around with a sippy cup of juice!) and that we needed to stay out of the heat. She’d mentioned keeping Reed “comfortable” when we saw her last Friday, but hadn’t really said no to being outdoors. Live and learn I guess. Anyway. Those Mighty Mini popsicles? A GODSEND. Woke up dreading checking Reed’s diaper (no pee tonight would have meant a trip to the ER) only to find his sheets drenched. Hooray! Yes, I was cheering over yet another load of laundry.

This is a bad, complain-y post. But I have a point. Seriously. I think.

This week has been without the park, which is much harder than I ever would have thought. It’s contained my being sick with the same bug Reed has (oh, and, hey, I’m 13-or-so weeks pregnant so that’s added to the wonder!), fears of an upcoming flight (I HATE flying. I’m not AFRAID of flying. I HATE it.), missing out on two really, really, really exciting events, one including a friend I haven’t seen in YEARS.

And so I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. I’m feeling a little blue. And then Reed comes and snuggles next to me on the floor and we pick up How Do Dinosaurs Say I Love You? which we’re borrowing from the library, and I remember that this will end. He pulls down the neck of my shirt so he can place his ear against my bare skin and hear my heart beat. And it’s a little better. It still really sucks. But it’s worth it again.