Dirty Little Secret #70, for Wordless Wednesday

My husband should not be allowed to use the camera.



See more Wordless Wednesday here.

Dirty Little Secrets #69 & #70

#69) I cry every day.

Three years ago today it started with great, gulping breathless sobs. My brother hugged me. He shook his head in sorrow and said, "This isn't supposed to happen to people like us." I suppose he meant that we, as upper-class, well-educated fortunates should be shielded from the oddly anti-septic experience of a messy emergency room death.

I briefly snapped out of my grief-stricken fog and angrily shook my head. "Yes. Yes it does. It happens to everyone."

And that's the sad, miserable truth of it. Cancer can happen to anyone at anytime at any age.

My father's drive to educate himself did not prevent him from being diagnosed with colon cancer at age fifty. His subsequent success in the world of business did not prevent the metastasis of his disease. His access to specialists at Memorial Sloan Kettering and the Mayo Clinic did not prevent his bloody, scary, untimely death.

Worldly good fortune will never shield us from grief.

#70) I grieve guiltily.

I will never lose sight of the fact that I lost my father as an adult. Hundreds, maybe thousands of children lose parents every day. I was lucky enough, however, to have my father see me through to adulthood. He walked all three of his children down the aisle, and witnessed the first few moments of the lives of two of his three grandchildren. When I find myself in tears at the kitchen sink, thinking of the moments I have missed with him, I force myself to remember that I am luckier than others: I am an adult who lost a parent. That will happen to all of us.

I am not a child. But sometimes, I feel like one.

Dirty Little Secret #68

I want to eat these. Now.




Photo by Amy.

Dirty Little Secret #67

I hate potty training.

Below, find an open letter I've addressed to poop, first published on Much More Than a Mom, in November, 2006 as part of the monthly blog exchange.

Dear Poop –

The first thing that I would like to tell you is that it’s me. Really. Not you. You’ve never claimed to be more than you are. You’ve always lived up to your promises. I can count on you, everyday. Four of five times a day. More, even, if I’m cleaning up after the dogs.

But today, when you whispered your sweet nothings in my son’s ear, and he felt the urge to take off his diaper and display you in all your glory across my new area rug – well, it crossed my mind that maybe I was done with you.

That sounds so harsh, but Poop, we’ve been doing this for so long. Maybe you and I would feel better about each other if you took a nice long vacation from my son’s diaper. I hear that The Potty is truly lovely this time of year.

I guess it’s the clinginess. What is it about you that makes you stick to skin and stain clothing? Why must you invade the fibers of my new wool rug and make camp as if your brown sienna smears are here to stay? And every time that I think I understand you, you go ahead and change. We had a nice schedule. Why couldn’t we keep things the way that we were? When it was only once a day, and you stayed firm to your promises, I was happy.

But now, Poop, I feel as if you’ve betrayed my trust. I know that the patterns of our new floor covering are fabulous and that the deep pile of its finest wool is like heaven beneath you. But to go around persuading innocent young men to drop their drawers and deposit you on it’s fine surface? It’s inexcusable.

So its come this. We must part ways. From here on, we’ll be feasting on bananas and cheese. We won’t see you round these parts for some time.

Adieu, Poo.

Edited to add:

The Potty really is lovely this time of year. It really is.

I wish I could just resort to blocking it all up, but little dude: YOU'VE GOT TO USE THE POTTY.