Last night, BG and I rolled out homemade pizza dough. BG stood on a chair in front of me, with my arms around her (and baby sister in the Ergo snuggled against my chest) our four hands on the rolling pin together.
"Roll, roll, roll your pizza, gently roll your pizza! If you see a pizza, don't forget to roll it," she sang loudly. My heart was practically overflowing with joy, laughter and pride.
The truth is, I'm kind of a rockstar.
In the morning, we'd gone to the Lego lab play center. We'd played with her friends for an hour and I'd chatted with other moms. I showed up and was really present. I was vulnerable. I told one of my friends about my doctor's appointment last week. I admitted to the hard and celebrated the good, and we all had a good time.
We went to Chik Fil A for lunch and then to pick up prescriptions and groceries. The girls fell asleep in the car on the way home.
The truth is, my kids are doing great. The truth is I am getting the hang of this mom thing. The truth is it felt really good to do things right. The truth is I'm a little embarrassed to admit that such small things feel so big, but they do.
I went online while they were sleeping to catch up with my friends. I found out some news that I didn't think would bother me but it did. I cried a little. I vented. I was immediately embarrassed about venting. I wanted to disappear.
The truth is, I'm sensitive. I'm easily hurt. I cry easily. I get left out. The truth is, I've been feeling invisible and small and not good enough and like my words and my work don't matter. The truth is I feel stupid for feeling this way, that I know that things like this don't define me, that I feel like I SHOULD SHOULD SHOULD know better, but the truth is it hurt. The truth is I'm kind of a mess.
We ate the pizza off paper plates because I didn't want to unload the dishwasher. I had beer with dinner because I forgot that I'm a weepy drunk. I had a great time, laughed with my family and was present. After dinner I cried some more and my husband raised his eyebrows at me and asked if I was sick.
The truth is I am. And I'm not. The truth is, I'm trying and it's scary and sometimes I get hurt. The truth is that some of the feelings aren't real and that some of them are. The truth is that none of this is simple, none of it is easy, and there's no reason to believe I'm supposed to get it all right or understand it all. The truth is I like to analyze it, to think about it, to understand things and I'm not really interested in giving that up.
My kids are playing together with a laundry basket right now. I'm drinking a second cup of coffee, and I'm writing and publishing even though I kinda feel like keeping all my writing on small slips of paper in a trunk in my attic and never leaving my house (and wearing a lot of white). I don't want to care if anyone reads it or if it matters to anyone, but I do. And I'm dark and I'm light and I'm good at this and I'm not, and my thoughts and feelings are what they are.
And that's the truth.