Judging you, Loving you

Your hair looks poor. You have a deadlock. It looks ratty. Yes, I KNOW I had dreadlocks before. That was before I reentered the real world and now we are in it, and I can’t stand to see you, in a gaggle of girls your age, be the ONE with the poor, poor, snarly hair. It is our give away.

Like my shitty blonde hair was a giveaway for a few years Look! I’m so poor I am bleaching my own dark brown hair to a cat-piss blonde. So sad.

Mortifying in hindsight.

I am our own worst critic, but that’s because I was so bullied at your age, kiddo. I know you don’t live that life but I am s0 afraid it will happen to you, beautiful, thin, pretty and nice as you are…having snarly hair just might be your achilles heel.

And the one thing that might be more painful than the  loneliness I felt all through my teenage years, would be to watch you go through it.

Sometimes, we create, conjure, the things we are most afraid of. We eat all the cake because we are afraid of having one piece. I tell you how ratty you look, before someone else does. But, that doesn’t make it easy for you to hear, and maybe if I were a better mother, I would never have let one god damn snarl cling to you, and you’d be perfectly groomed and would not have nails bitten to the quick, and we would always have party shoes ready.

And there would be parties.


***short rant, don’t take this too seriously, sometimes I write to rid.



When my daughter does something new, and no one but me is there, I hold my own hand.

My daughter is about to go to her first swim meet.

For some reason, this fills me with loneliness and anxiety.

I will try to brush these feelings off by writing this post, venting.

I always feel so painfully alone when new milestones appear. Even, when they can be seen in the distance.


Maybe be its my codependency. Each milestone means she is closer and closer to being an adult, being home. I’m closer to being alone.

I dread the parents I will air with today, full of 2-parent cheerleading support teams, coming in fleets of minivans with dollar bills heading towards an oasis of concession stands. I feel feeble, impotent, impossible, in-valid.

Its just stress. But, I need a hand to hold.