my kryptonite

It's like this: Mostly I am fine. Mostly I go about my business, and nobody knows, nobody cares. My life is wonderful. I am lucky. But then it happens - for whatever reason - and it's crippling, I become obsessed.

I'm like a junkie that needs a fix. I need someone to tell me I'm a good mother, that I turned out OK. I crave it like an addict craves his next hit. I have to have it. And it can't come from just anybody. It has to be a woman, and she has to be older than me - even by a little bit.

And once I get a hit, all my energy is focused on how I'll get another. When, where will I find the person who brings me a cup of vanilla tea, absentmindedly smoothing the back of my hair while smiling adoringly at my children? How can I find the lady who will sit with me on the couch, rubbing my back when the doctor tells me my four-year old could have a fatal disease? Where is the woman who goes with me to get a second opinion, and holds my hand until the doctor says the tests are all clear?

The truth is, I will never find that lady - there are no big sisters, no aunts, nobody.
It is just a dream - wishful thinking in a never-gonna happen sort of way.

And the sad part, is that even though I can imagine the vignettes, even though I play these little scenes in my mind over and over - my mother is never there, she hasn't been for a long time - she's way too young. It is always the mom from Growing Pains, Mrs. Garrett, one of the Golden Girls, or even the lady at the scrapbook store who always calls me "darlin'." Talk about messed up.