I wrote this big long reflective insightful emo-bullshit post 2 nights ago and posted it, and then had such overwhelming emo-bullshit post-related angst that I took it back down and I have been sitting and thinking about what, exactly, bothered me so much that I had to get out of bed at 2am and take it down from it's internet home all foggy-eyed and sleep-deprived.
I decided that while yes indeedy, I can be deep and insightful and almost (gasp) poetic, that just isn't the me I choose to put down on paper (onscreen), or share with others. I *never* had a journal where I wrote long teeth-gnashing haikus about boys and cars. I will never be able to participate in a Cringe unless it is reading entries from my yearbook. (OH ! Maybe I will do that. That idea is now copyrighted, bitches.)
So, I am going to share the Daffodil-approved version of events.
I wanted to watch a movie with my kids. Actually, THEY wanted ME to watch a movie with THEM which is a very different thing indeed. I just wanted to take a nap, for God's sake.
So I was on Netflix, wracking my brain trying to remember movies I had seen as a child that we could all enjoy together. I came up with Spaceballs.
The conversation went like this:
"Hey kids, want to watch Spaceballs ?"
"YEAH !" "No." "Great idea mom ! I love space ! AND I LOVE BALLS!"
All righty then.
So, we were watching Spaceballs, and about 10 minutes in, I realized that it was totally inappropriate, there was all sorts of sexual weirdness, and I had made a terrible error in judgement but it was far too late because the kids LOVED IT and they would not hear of turning it off or choosing something different, and since I had just finished telling them about how I had watched this movie when I was their age, and had loved it, I was sort of stuck.
Later on I called my brother, who basically summarized the plot, outlined the highlights, noted the inappropriate parts, and put me TO SHAME.
He was able to recall movie after movie we had seen as children, with remarkable detail, down to which theater we had seen it in, and who had taken us. And the YEAR we saw it.
Which is when I started to go all emo-angst-y.
Because dudes, I cannot remember a god-damned thing from my childhood.
Now, that may be OK, but I want to know why. WHY can't I remember? I mean, if I had spent my teen years in a cloud of pot, snacking on acid and washing it down with Rumplemintz, I would understand. But I didn't. I mean sure, a few beers and a couple of shots, maybe a bowl made out of an empty can of Busch... and an admitted penchant for Marlboro lights, but really....nothing that would have caused permanent damage. I don't even know how to use a bong. Do I cover the little hole while I inhale, or not ? What about the little thing-y holding the weed - do I lift that thing out ? And how much water is supposed to be in there, anyway ? Jesus, would someone just pass the girl a joint already ?
I have brief flashes of memories, so brief that I cannot be sure if they are actually MY memories, or stories that have been recounted to me with accompanying photographs. Because that is how I remember things...... A single picture, a smell, a sound. I don't remember conversations, events, trips, faces.....nothing. It's all a blank canvas, with a few moments scattered about.
Which makes me sad, as a person and as a parent. If I am not overflowing with happy childhood memories, what the HELL are my kids going to remember ? A half-crazed menopausal freak with chronic pain and a short fuse, with a penchant for napping ? Christ. I want my kids to have wonderful memories. Am I giving them enough wonderful worth remembering ?
And more importantly, if they aren't going to remember any of it ANYWAY, can I let go of the mommy guilt now and take a vacation without them ? Because that would be fucking awesome.
7 hours ago