My friend Sarah doesn't believe in blogs. She says people aren't honest in their writing. They don't share their whole selves, but rather a sugar-coated version. I think in a lot of cases this is true, and I don't care for that sort of writing either. But then again, I've always been attracted to dark and troubled people.
I don't want to fall into that category, myself, and for the most part I think I have been honest. I have the luxury of full disclosure mainly because I can count on one hand the number of people who read these words, and that's on a good day. But I also over-share because, well, I do that in my regular life too. I have boundary issues. But don't all bloggers?
Anyway, I have to share what an abysmal mother I am. J and I missed the bus this morning. She tried to cheer me up when I grumbled about it, and I bit her head off. The more she tried to smooth things over, the more I insisted that the situation was a complete and utter disaster. Those were my exact words. I also told her it was completely her fault. You read that right.
Can you believe I am such an asshole? I can't. I say these things because I get upset and I want people to know I am upset and I want them to be upset along with me. But she's 6.
Of course I apologized. I hugged her and told her I loved her and that our lateness was not that big of a deal, and it was my fault too. But just like other times, I know she'll carry my tirade in her heart forever and I can never take it back. And like other times, I don't waste time berating myself (for long) afterward, but pick at the memory of the eruption to find how to keep it from happening again. These fits of temper come out of nowhere, seemingly. At 40, I still need to find tools to diffuse them before I let that feeling of justification rule my decisions. If I can't do that for J, who the hell can I do it for? God, I hate this...
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