So let's see, if you've ever been over to Searching you know that I gave birth to my first child when I was 16. To be clear, I turned 17 five days later. Whoop-de-freaking-doo, I know. I like to be clear on that though. Which is kind of revealing if you think about it.
I was viewed, before getting knocked up, as an exceptionally mature young woman. And then after I committed the ultimate sin of female adolescence and got knocked up? More maturity. Except I don't think so.
Yes, I went to school every day and got top marks. I took the best care I could of my son and still do that. I try to anyway. And still? Still I make mistakes. I engage in stupid battles with my children often out of hurt feelings. I struggle between having an open and honest as possible relationship with them and boundaries too.
My mom and I had a very open and somewhat honest relationship with each other but there were very few boundaries. She had me when she was 19. In 1977. There were no schools to go to with your child in tow. There was little left to do but marry and that's what she did. She took the best care of me she could.
That's what we all try to do as mothers, obviously. Fathers too. But sometimes I feel like it's never enough. This too is revealing. Revealing of the constant pressure I place on myself in all aspects of life.
My house? Never clean enough. Never good enough. Me? Never thin enough or smart enough or funny enough? My marriage? Never good enough, strong enough or sexy enough.
Is any of that true or even Pretty All True?
Yet I tell myself it is on days like these. I am not a good enough mother.
I would like to erase "good enough" from my vocabulary.
My husband? Knows no such words. He and I had polar-ly opposite childhoods. There is not much more to be said than that. And with, as one might expect, totally opposite outcomes. He is never worried about other people think. I obsess about it. He always believes things will work out. I imagine the worst. He thinks money is never-ending. I think there is never enough.
He is good. He is good and kind and generous. And sometimes? People take advantage of that. And then you know what I want to do? Kick the shit out of those motherfuckers or at least have a verbal altercation where I point out they do not deserve his loyalty or help or forgiveness.
He forgives and almost always forgets.
I carry grudges and never ever never forget.
He has stuck with me through the endless amounts of pressure I put on myself. Tells me to stop. Once in awhile becomes fed up.
Irrevocably fucked up is a serious title and accusation. Where did it come from? Well as long as I can remember I have worked very hard to 'be good'. In Grade 5 I had a test and mentioned to my Grandma how much my neck hurts when I write a test. She couldn't believe it! I typically got 90s or 100s and so what did I have to worry about? I was affronted by this. Did she think it was that easy to do that time and time again? And what would happen if I didn't get 100? I didn't say any of these things; I think I just explained to her that I did get a little nervous and left it at that.
And now? Now I got fired. I don't know if she knows. I don't know if my dad knows. I don't want to tell them. I am the good girl. The good girl that got pregnant but finished high school on time and on the high honour roll. The good girl that married the dad of the baby and that went to university and got a degree. And had another child at 19. Beautiful well behaved children.
Then I got divorced. At my choosing. And good girl no more was I.
And then I redeemed myself. I had a good paying job. I got re-married, bought a home and had another beautiful baby at an appropriate age. Then one more.
Now? I am fired.
This life we built for ourselves could all fall down. Because of me.
Irrevocably fucked up. Because a good girl does not quit a job where she is making the kind of money I was. With the benefits I had. A good girl will never mind that it is eating her soul and stealing her away from her family and will go to work. Like. A. Good. Girl.
And then she will blog. And blogging is where she, I, can be bad. Could be anyway. And being bad cost me.
I knew it all along.
Irrevocably fucked up.
*I sort of stalk Pretty All True and she inspired today's post. FYI