Rumpelstiltskin

I know there are bloggers who write the most excellent stories; some who compose nifty essays. I love to visit them, often. I never really do that here. Our philosophies differ as much as our talents. I report. I am a standard journal monkey. And what I love about this form is that it is so permissible. It admits regardless of quality, with no necessities of quantities, either.

This is convenient for me, one who very often tells only half a story. Who's to mind, it is only my blog. I am allowed it out without explanation, without completeness.

Half story for the day...

I almost left her there.
My daughter.
Using the terms loosely.

A long day of fun at the fair for May Day. A predictable end coming with some edginess and then the spark. Late for nap. Tired and hungry, keyed up. My son wanted to play with the seat belt she grabbed it. Siblings fought.

Tho' I had two adults, it was my show. I have never cracked the drill sargenting that others might. When the going gets tough and you need to:
Diaper
Change clothes
Wash up with no washroom
Pack van
Say bye bye
Have drink
Find loveys
Get home

Do it all in the minus 45 minutes I just do it. My husband even asks too many questions and 'doesn't get it'. My septagenerian parents stand by. In awe of my anxious prattling narration of the actions for departure. My Dad might put a stroller away. My mother, plays on.

When they fought on the back deck I snatched my daughter out of it and moved her to her seat. And she yelled, "Don't". But the fighting had to be stopped. Her grandmother ran to her, consoling. Announcing that she was "tired of seeing the child bullied". And, then I yelled, "Don't, please go."

I am a bad mother on any day. But today? And, as always, from my mother.

I am agast but I really could have left her there, my daughter. Myself entirely wrapped up in the narrative that she is in fact best off a character from a Shirley Temple movie, sans maman, without family. An individual. Special. Cherished grandchild, instead. Not mine, hers.

I am her daughter. Surely I can see my mother's value(s). To disparage her is to, in some manner, deny myself any esteem.

But she can be such an amazing witch. Steeped in powers I will never understand. Whirling spells that stop me dead. Looking in horror at my own child ready to hand her over. Mom, tell me how it is. It is I am sure so simple.

I have tried, on and off, for these 3+ years to 'do it her way.' But I never do. It is actually quite impossible. I am their mother, not her. It is a psychic tussle. I will feel this pain whenever we share their time. Her burgeoning critiques, the scoffs, her playing favorites and the rapture and worship my kids give freely.

Moths to the flame.

My daughter is my mother's first grandchild and my son her last. I tell myself she is learning to be a grandparent as much as I am learning to be a parent... but today. Today I really was ready to just give her my keys and walk into a forest somewhere where the bad mothers go to drink shooters and read blogs all day.