Youngest daughter, trying to open her eyes with iced tea… so she can venture forth and look for a new job… because she walked out on her old one. Part time retail must be a bitch.
Now I know how those long hairs get into the sink…

I feel like Richard Nixon intoning “I am not a crook”, but really… I am not a wicked stepmonster. If anything I take a very ‘hands-off’ approach to pseudo mothering. I try to listen when they talk, whether I’m there simply as a sounding board or lending some emotional support. I laugh with them and cry with them, nod my head in agreement that life is just not fair but you’re gonna be fine. Need some money? Need my time?

The biggie, and this holds true for Arthur as well: I don’t nag. Even if staying silent is causing an overflow of acid to eat through the lining of my duodenum. Is it because I think I’m so important that people should do what I ask the first time or simply because I can’t stand to be nagged myself, so avoid it at all costs?

I wonder if that creates more problems. Am I seen as uncaring because I refuse to constantly badger the fucking loved ones? I’m sure it would be healthier for me, both emotionally and physically, as I’ve been known to wait for months until finally hitching up my bloody ulcer and facing whomever has shown such lack of respect as to disregard my wishes.
[Don't worry, even then I don't lose control and scream at them. If I scream, I don't mean anything. If I become very quiet, watch out. ]

Real mothers come with a nagging gene. It has to be there, because a four year old will not remember to brush her teeth and hair… or put away her toys… or play nice with others… Consistent reiteration is needed to mold a child into a decent citizen of the world.

So maybe that’s the key to the puzzle; I had no one to nag from birth, so never developed the skill set necessary. One step was 21 and the other 14 when I arrived on the scene. The damage was done, so to speak, for all of us. I just tried to fit in and clean up after them. And that’s the rut we still walk in…

Okay, here it is… Some of that horrible internal stuff that eats away at the edges… like I’m walking around with bloody sleeves but the rest of my outfit is fine. I’m tainted…
I love them all. But I keep the girls at an emotional distance. In the back of my mind I know that if something happens to their father, I’d move across country faster than you could whistle Dixie. Oh, we’d keep in touch for a while, exchange cards at the holidays, but I’d probably never see them again.

I’m weak, eh? Basing emotional decisions on a probability. Not committing myself wholly to the very people I should… whether it will cause pain later on or not… and there is always pain, anyway.

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Self revelation hurts and makes me cry like a 16 year old after a bad date. Here it is the next day; had to think about this overnight. I can’t believe that I’ll even hit ‘publish’ on this sucker.

Is it ever too late? I’m going to go wake up Youngest Daughter; she needs to be nagged.