we tell our children how special they are, but if every child is special, are we not all just ordinary? what makes us think we are so special? are we not all just mediocre people? a friend once referred to another person as common, a judgment i guess on the fact that they were not special. but i ask who is truly special? are we, as humans, not all just common, only our false airs, fake hair, plucked and waxed faces and vaginas, and our pretentious ways, we are all common, even a princess poops. she just doesn’t talk about it, but guess what, she has to wipe her own bottom just like everybody else.
these days i don’t feel very special, i feel ordinary, every day is ordinary, and the ordinary days bleed one into the next, i keep waiting for my peace award, or my art award, or the teacher of the year award, or the amazing mom of the year award, but i deserve none of it. really none. i am just muddling through this mediocre life, i am just muddling through.
i have never raised a kid, i don’t know what advice to give you, he says. i haven’t ever raised one either, i say, i don’t know what i am doing. my voice cracks…
sometimes teaching is hard, i am tired of nagging the kids, and saying the same stuff over and over and having them not listen, seriously at all, it gets exhausting saying the same stuff over and over, giving directions repeatedly, and that feeling of being thrown into something and not knowing what you are doing, a result of budget and staff cuts forcing people into roles they are not always prepared to play.
i failed as a wife, i still don’t exactly know why.
he tells me, two years is too long to wait,
i tell him,
it is, it is way too long.
i tell him, you are the first responsible adult that i have spent considerable time with in 20 years, your home is a sanctuary of peace and serenity, i say, i just want to be here because it feels good.
finally after all this time, i see how hard my mom worked, and how difficult it must have been for her in my college years.
i stand on the cliff, well not exactly, because i am afraid of the precipice, and i beat my chest, like a territory protecting gorilla, only i don’t have fur, and i am a woman, and it hurts just a little, i put my hands close to my face and press my arms against my chest, resting my jaw on my fist, i am sitting under a massive boulder, well not exactly, because i am afraid it will be dislodged, i am like a mouse, whiskers twitching
i may as well be a furry ape, or a quivering mouse