Identity

Growing up I knew exactly what I wanted to be. I wanted to be Cyndi Lauper. I wanted pink hair. I wanted to sing...LOUDLY and I wanted to dance and I wanted to wear Rainbow Brite's clothes and I wanted to be loved...for all of it. I remember living in Southern California...summer days were endless and hot. White heat. The air smelled like oil and dirt and humidity. I played with ants. I played with cockroaches. I spit on people from our second floor apartment. I made prank calls to the operator at the public pay phone...late into the night as my mom spoke with my aunt on the adjacent phone. I was convinced that I was convincing the operator that I was a 50 year old man asking for the time. I was that good. I was going to be an actress. I was going to be loved. I remember running barefoot up the fake green turf carpeting that lined our apartment stairs. The dirt. The grime. The smell of burning carpet when I laid the hair iron on it. The time I washed the cat...in the toilet. The time I followed a little girl home from school and missed the bus...the bus that would take me back down to the poor neighborhood I lived in. The abandoned gas station across the street...with the homeless camped behind it...between the walls of buildings...their drunken caterwauling at night. The lights. The sirens. Riding in the back window of our vehicles...orange street lights flashing by...the night life of Los Angeles. Sucking on butterscotch candies my grandpa gave me. Hiding under my uncle's bed while playing solo GI Joe...discovering nudie mags. What IS this? Watching Annie...I remember feeling sorry for her...sorry that she had no family...sorry that she had to be adopted.

And then I was. Aren't our lives like this? Don't we all have stories like this. Stories that are probably all a little dirtier then we would like to remember. Not quite so airbrushed they exist in the back corners of our mind. Most of the time we can ignore them...but they have made us. We are a product of these experiences. My experiences are gritty. I am gritty. I am emotional. I am compassionate. I am disgusted. I am sad. Who I am lurks beneath the surface and is insecure. I am that 7, 8, 9 year old girl...I am the girl that slept in a car.

I have noticed when I blog that I want to appear a certain way. I take many pictures of happy events. I don't take pictures of myself pinched and silent during dinner. I don't take pictures of my house and the mess. Because I want to appear at least remotely put together. I don't want to show it at all if it can't look better then it normally does. I don't take pictures of myself wasting time online. I don't take pictures of myself feeling smug and self satisfied. I don't take pictures of myself judging.

So I will rectify this. I can be distracted and lazy. I can be a procrastinator. I am not organized. I like bright colors. I like music. I like to dance. I like to walk. I like to laugh. I am that little whirling dervish girl.

Being a mother now lends itself to all sorts of expectations. It is a battle for me to overcome my desire to socialize with the need to keep house. I thought I would dispel any myths that may exist for those that don't know me well on any supermomness. We are our harshest critics and I know so many moms that think the worst of themselves. We don't love ourselves...we want to be like THAT mom...the one that is beautiful, the one that makes time to exercise or knit or do any assortment of things we don't do and frankly don't want to! I want my house to be organized and beautiful! But it isn't.

What is this blog about? Being myself. Allowing myself to be strong in some areas and not others. And appreciating the things I have to offer that are unique to me. The grit.

Isla is our standby paper shredder...very energy efficient.

Breakfast. Check. Coats. Check. Library movies. Check.

Shoe rack that Jon made...not currently being used.

New bike kept out of the rain...glider rocker as stool, probably not the best idea.

Note tiara on dresser and guns in corner...unmade bed, box of things to dispose of.