“Alright, Mom. I have to go.”
Our morning conversation was beginning to bleed into my working hours and I could no longer ignore the screams from my inbox.
“OK, baby. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Thanks for listening to me be a raging whore all morning.”
“Mmm… I’d say raging bitch.”
“Technically I don’t think I can call you a raging whore unless you’re running around taking your clothes off,” she continued.
“Well, technically I don’t think that would make me a raging whore. I think I’d have to be getting paid for taking my clothes off and having sex with people to be an actual whore.”
“Really?” there was genuine curiousity in her voice, which made me giggle.
“Yes. Really. That’s a whore.”
“I think what you’re thinking of is slut.”
She giggled again. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too, Mom.”
I hung up the phone and turned on my computer with a smile on my face. And I was glad that I’d made the decision not to write a post last night.
I have raging PMS right now. At least, I’m assuming I do. It’s either PMS or the world really is filled exclusively with assholes who can do nothing right.
Last night as I sat down to write today’s post, I was filled with ideas of things to complain about. I started hammering at my keyboard and watched as the screen filled with vitirol. I sat back and reread the first several paragraphs, and I suddenly couldn’t stomach the idea of making my anger permanent.
I flipped off the computer and watched a movie instead.
This morning I woke up to the familiar sounds of my two children fighting. I clenched my jaw and felt my teeth grind against each other. I checked off the number of days in my head until they left for their summer vacation in Iowa.
As I drove them to daycare, I mentally composed a post about how sick I was of the constant bickering and my daughter’s new found resistance to things like listening and obedience. I contemplated how I would soften my maternal bitching with claims that I would, in fact, miss them while they were away.
The tapping of my internal typewriter was interrupted by memories of saying goodbye to them last year. Immediately behind those memories came painful reminders of the people I love who have had to say goodbye to their children because of death. And then I was overwhelmed by the faces of those I care about who are still waiting, hoping, to someday meet children of their own.
I held Emma’s hand as we walked into daycare and refused to hurry her along the sidewalk. I snuck a kiss on Devin’s head when his friends weren’t looking.
And I was glad I hadn’t gotten the chance to immortalize my frustrations with them in writing.
And then I got on the phone with my mother and raged at her for 30 minutes about how fucking sick I was of having to take the garbage out. And make coffee. And repeat myself thirty fucking times every damn day. She wondered aloud why the people in her house put recyclables in her garbage can and I explained to her that it was because they didn’t care about her or the environment and, basically, because they all fucking suck.
And she giggled.
Suddenly, I no longer feel like I need to explain to the world just how pissed off I am.
My hormones are still raging, certainly. But for the moment, at least, I’ve found a safe place to dump what are clearly temporary emotions. And I’m grateful to have someone I can throw them at who will not only not take them personally, but not hold on to them or pass them on to someone else later in the day.
I’m grateful, mostly, because I didn’t have to put them here.
I don’t know why, but I’ve been hesitant lately to use my words to build a monument to negativity. I look around me and see so much anger and sadness and contempt, and it is no longer therapeutic for me to add my own misery to the heap. No matter how justified my own rage may seem, I just haven’t been able to stomach the actual act of manifesting it into the written word.
It seems to me that maybe the world already has enough of that.