Perspective

I had a great visit with a neighbor today. We chatted for two hours while the kids played. Towards the end I brought up the troll shit. Because I’m a whiny bitch. I mentioned what I had read of specific criticisms. (I don’t know where the thread goes beyond where I did my idiotic number of responding to questions and I really don’t want to know. I’ve been idiotic enough to log in and see that the fucking thread exploded but I had just enough self control to not fucking read it.)

I don’t actually need to care about these peoples opinions of me. They will never actually spend time to get to know me. They have already judged me and it doesn’t matter what I’m actually like.

Everyone who has ever read my writing says, “Wow you are different in person.”

This is the absolute most extreme of my thinking. I’m really a lot fucking milder in person. I have a lot more self control than you might perceive as a judgmental random person.

I don’t really give a shit. I’m not writing for you. I’m writing to organize my thoughts for myself. I’m not writing with the goal of communicating with you, Oh Jane Blow.

I’m writing for Noah. And he does know what I’m doing. And he does track my behavior and my interactions with the kids. So, uhm, your “concern” is … yeah.

You aren’t concerned. You are entertained by feeling superior. That’s a wee bit different.

You know what? I won’t ever come back and read. It’s totally cool for you to have your space to say whatever you want and it doesn’t have to impact me. But for the love of shiny green apples, go the fuck away.

I have managed to chase off most of the folks who really wanted me to become a source of porn for them because they wanted to jack off to thinking about me being raped as a little kid. How hard can it be to chase off a pack of “concerned strangers”?

You aren’t actually concerned about my children. I mean, sorta you are in a self serving anxious way. Not in a way that reflects any awareness of my children.

My children glow with love and health. You really… yeah. I don’t know many people who haven’t been hit by their parents. I know extremely few people who think they have the right to say “Stop” to their parents.

I’m ok with what I’m doing. I mean… no… I’m not ok with all of what I’m doing. I know I get to the point of being a bully. I’m learning a lot about the size and shape of that and what I need to do to create space for myself where I don’t do that.

But you don’t know anything about me. You don’t know how I talk to my children. You believe you do. You seem to think you know a lot. Have fun with that.

Children vary. What is wildly inappropriate or abusive for one child is necessary and or desirable to another child.

Also, cultures vary lots. People all over the world have incredibly different views of what it means to be a child. My children are not having a privileged American childhood. Yeah, they are being taught about work.

It was hilarious when I listed off some of the things people were complaining about. I said, “I’m always afraid these kinds of people might be right. I really don’t want to hurt my kids.”

She started laughing. She told me about how she handles her kids, how her parents handled her, how her siblings handle their kids.

You know what? Eldest Child is probably right. I’m about average. I’m not that great. I’m not that bad. Mostly because I do some things very very well and some things very very badly. So I sorta average out.

I’m getting better at working around my very very badly areas.

Yes. I have severe developmental delays and I don’t know how to do everything I probably should know how to do.

Duh.

My children are preternaturally confident. They are very sure of who they are, what they want, and what they should get from the world. And they bloody well expect to be treated with at least civility or they will object with great fervor.

I spend a lot of time writing that I want to beat the shit out of my children. I don’t say it that often. Even when my kid told me to knock it off it wasn’t that common and it was mostly muttered under my breath. I don’t yell at them. I don’t threaten them that they must do x work or I will beat them.

I acknowledge to myself that I’m done. Then I turn to them and say, “My drawer of spoons is completely and totally empty. Can you help?”

But yeah. I don’t write for your clarity. I write so I will remember the most extreme bits and not try to deny that they happened.

I’ll remember the good parts. They are so very wonderful.

Gotta go hang out with my friend. And my friend’s kids. And my other friend. And my husband. And my kids.

Because I’m doing ok. I’m not perfect. But I’m doing ok.