Paintbrush hairs and temper-tantrums

Sometimes all I can think about is how far I have to go. Then again, sometimes I can't see the big picture at all, but ironically, I can see tiny hairs that the brush left behind. I get caught up in them and obsess over them. Such a sad brave thing to be a brush hair that gets stuck in a painting. Those little bristles sacrificed themselves for art. Like suicide bombers. I remember when I sacrificed myself for art. And now I stay within the lines or do nothing at all. I wonder about the rest of the brush. What it's been up to, what its strokes are like these days and if it's different without the missing hair. I wonder if that hair is proud of where it ended up or if it longs to be moving again. It will never be a part of another piece. It is stuck.

I've lost too many friends since becoming a mom. I got stuck in a picture I painted and they all kept moving. Or maybe I'm just bad at keeping in touch. There are a lot of redneck-grandma cliches that swarm my brain when I think about where my life is going. "You made your bed, now lie in it" is one. I know how lame that sounds, but it won't go away. I keep thinking all it takes is strength, which is good, because that's something I have. But how long can a person expect to live believing their entire life is punishment?

No one ever mentioned all the guilt involved in marriage and mothering. Maybe because no one else has anything to be guilty about? Sometimes I pull myself aside for a performance evaluation: Are you doing it right? No. Do you know which areas need improvement? Yes. Ok, can you try harder? Meh.

The passion in a child's temper-tantrum is so intense and so real. He may be pissed about something completely stupid, but the emotions are undeniably alive. Jonas threw a fit when we had to leave. That always makes my heart ache. I know how much it hurts to leave when you're having fun. I didn't want to leave either.