Birthday with my parents

My parents came to celebrate my birthday. Even though it was late, even though it wasn’t the day. We still celebrated.

I was tired. I’ve been opening my eyes to the truth of my childhood, including the truth of my parents and how they behaved. I wasn’t in the mood to be around them. I didn’t want to smile and act perfect. I didn’t want them to find me lacking, I wanted to still be perfect in their eyes. I didn’t know what I wanted. But I knew I was too tired to clean up and organize the house to my mother’s standards. Hubby told me to hide the mess.

“Put the dishes in the oven. Hide the toys, towels, laundry, whatever in out bedroom. Shut the door,” he said.

I thought about it. The idea seemed impossible. It was a lie. I wouldn’t really be perfect, and yet, my house would appear perfect. It would be fake. As fake as my “perfect” childhood. As fake as my “perfect parents.”

I went back and forth between it. Clean up. Leave things messy and face my mom and dad’s disgust. Put the dishes in the oven.

I put the damn dishes in the oven. 🙂

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5 thoughts on “Birthday with my parents

    • I’m actually kinda proud I did it 🙂 LOL
      I was a little worried that my mom would open the oven for some random reason. That would have been horrifying!

      I like your motto. I just feel like of my house is not perfectly clean, people will judge me to be this horrible person. Or something.

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      • Well, I did appreciate that you decided not to exhaust yourself to clean for her. And sticking them in the oven was self-caring too. Who needs criticism? Those that choose to criticize don’t stop because we ask them not to.
        If she had opened the oven, an honest discussion might have begun. Not an easy one but one a long time coming…

        Anyone not liking you if your house isn’t a certain way is not a friend. I had a ‘friend’ once who actually took her finger and wiped it along the dust on the shelf. She is not a friend anymore, and maybe never was.

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  1. I’m reading your blog, all in one go.

    And while I’ve felt like I’m forming a bond with you (without you knowing, heh), seeing this picture pop up is drawing big, sloppy tears. I do the same thing. Our utility room is what I call my “dark soul room.” It’s evidence of my ugliness.

    Our stories are so similar, right down to age. Yours is your own, of course, but I’m finding myself trying to scroll past your posts too quickly because I don’t want to get into it, with myself, again. I’m skimming a bit, at this point, and know I need to go back and read through all of it. I need to feel everything that comes from it… because the skimming is just an easy lie I’m telling myself, to not connect with too much more of your story at the moment. But this picture? God. A thousand words. A million.

    Thank you for starting a blog. For being open and sharing this. :*)

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    • Thank you and welcome. 🙂 I’m sorry that my story resonates with you, although I’m glad to know my words help someone. I’ve found that writing has helped me a great deal, and I’ve met a wonderful group of bloggers through writing, as well. 🙂

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