So I'm just recovering now from a visit from my mother. I love the dear woman but she's so critical of me that it can be hard to takem, especially now when I'm feeling so vulnerable on the spur of Geoff's affair. Like the other day, she made the comment that it looks like I'm still pregnant and carrying the baby in my ass. That stung a bit. And then I wonder why I have such low self esteem and why I was a "slasher" in high school and spent more time in the school counselors office than in the classroom. To be honest, I still do it sometimes- slashing. Well, mostly by accident, though. Like the time that I stepped on a piece of broken glass in the kitchen. That was a bad scene. A supposed accident, but who's to say what's an accident and what's done deliberately by a devalued subconscious? It's something that I should definately bring up with my therapist. There's some issues there, I'm sure.
All right, so that's not completely true. My mom never said that. I'm not a slasher. Never have been. Mighta been, maybe, were it not for the whole cutting thing. Sounds painful to me and you know how I feel about that. I still need that tetanus shot, but I ain't gonna get it. No way no how. I'll die of some obscure tetanus related illnessess before they stick a needle in my arm. And I don't have a therapist, although I'm not saying I don't need one. But I really did step on a piece of glass in the kitchen. And a thumbtack in the bedroom, too.
Anyways, the time does go by. I realize it has been three months since I started my maternity leave. Another depressing fact is that it has been almost a year since I first began sending query letters regarding my manuscript. I sent my first query letter November of 2007, eager and excited. Ten months later and the process continues. I sent out another query letter a couple of weeks ago, and am awaiting a response, but not feeling optimistic. After so much rejection it's hard to feel optimistic anymore. It's disheartening to say the least. There are only few agents left to try. I have started writing another novel, so then I guess the process will begin anew when I complete it.
As far as my maternity leave goes, it's been three months and I am starting to tire of it. Geoff is never here. The house is always messy. The dog is always yapping. Even Payton is always whining. It's very hard to hold it together some days. Sometimes I feel like having a temper tantrum right alongside the kids. Life isn't fair. You're telling me. All I have to show for my 8 years of University education is very small house, a very old vehicle and a very limited wardrobe of Joe clothing that is mostly ill fitting and stained. My mom has this magnet on her fridge. It says "A good mother has dirty floors and happy kids." Well, I have the dirty floors down pat. The kids, well they're happy. If you buy them a toy or bring them to McDonalds. Other than that they yell, they scream, they cry, they whine, they tell on each other insessantly for things that are SO stupid that it's absolutely pointless, like for example "mom, Payton pointed at my belly button",and on and on and on.
I love my life. I have to keep on repeating that to myself. I love my life. I love my life. It doesn't really help but maybe someday, eventually, if I say it enough times...
So amidst all this drudgery, I have found my imagination thinking of things that I otherwise might not have considered. Like the other day when I was at Superstore, and I saw a sign at H&R block to take a tax course. So I started to think "I should take a tax course!" Yes, a tax course is exactly what I need!! How cool would I be if I could do taxes! And then I could work for H&R block during tax season. Make a load of extra cash. Maybe get a cute pair of glasses and a power suit. Wouldn't that be fun! And then today, these people came to my door, campaigning for Nettie something or other for the NDP. I took a brochure. The fine print on the bottom caught my eye. "Join our campaign!", it said and it had a phone number. I thought "Hey- that's what I should do! I could just picture myself, life on the campaign trail! All cocktail mixers, dressing up, rooting for a cause, looking through papers with a very serious look on my face. Again, I would need a cute pair of glasses and a power suit. Let's get that bitch elected, I was thinking. But then I thought, well, I can't exactly show up to a cocktail mixer with a baby on my hip and puke on my shoulder. Unless the campaign was in Backwoods, Tennessee. And I can't exactly go to tax school and come home every forty five minutes to breast feed that bottomless pit of a baby.
I love my life.
I'll just keep saying it.