my overactive brain
by, 19-Oct-2013 at 22:07 (276 Views)
I went out to breakfast with my daddy/husband this morning, and we were sitting there eating sweet rolls and drinking coffee--it was a grown up breakfast, mostly--and talking about all sorts of things that were on our minds because we have not had much of a chance to talk this week, and a family with three little girls came into the restaurant.
Now a strange thing happens to me when I am around little girls. I am carried instantly back to that point in my life when my own girls were that young, when I could carry them and cuddle them and dress them in cute clothing and lift them in the air and whirl them around, when I could put bows in their hair and play with them and just generally enjoy their little girlish sweetness. It was one of my favorite times: I loved how they loved me; I loved how I loved them.
But all of this nearly violent wave of nostalgic emotion competes with another just as powerful one in my mind when I see little girls these days: not only do I wish I could have little girls in my life again, my daughters, my granddaughters maybe, but at the same time I wish I could be those little girls. I watch them with their innocent and joyful, excited faces as their mommy lets them pick out a pastry at the bakery, their eyes bigger than their ears, standing on tip toes to see what is on the top shelves, and I want to give them huge hugs...and at the same time I want to be the little girl looking at all of those treats.
It's bloody confusing.
I said this. I told him that at times I could not figure out who I am, and it's true. I'm a 56-year-old woman, incontinent because of whatever reason, dealing with that as best I can. I have grown children; I could have grandchildren if they give them to me; I will when they do. And I love being the grownup, the thinker, the writer, the analyzer, the player with children, the mom, the grandma-to-be. But some part of me also needs to feel the succor of being the child, the babe, the innocent. Some part of me needs to be taken care of and I can't mesh the two parts sometimes.
My new meds don't work. I didn't think they would, but somehow the confirmation of what I suspected has left me in a vulnerable and emotional state. I really am beginning to believe I will be in diapers the rest of my life, and I honestly don't know how I feel about that. If my husband took to his daddy role more, were more active in it and set aside time to indulge that side of me completely, maybe I could handle it better, but he has yet to feel comfortable enough. I know he cares and wants to, but he's unsure. Pure vanilla, remember? Even if he did, though: how could he? Where and when? My son lives with us; it's not as if we have tons of privacy. So I am languishing a bit, confused, stuck, trying to satisfy myself with wearing Bellissimos and sucking on pacis (that are often staying in all night now) and cuddling my large oversoft purple bear, but these are small things and they don't seem to settle my hyperactive brain down.
So I beat on, a boat against the current, borne on ceaselessly into the chaos of the future.