D and I leave the bedroom door open when the kids are here. B, the 7 year old, sometimes has nightmares, calls for his papa. The open door is welcoming, especially in the early morning - to light, train and tractor noises, being screamed at, "I'm hungry."
Patiently, or the appearance of patiently, D always says to B, "I'll be right there to make you breakfast." And then he gets up, and I watch him, his beautiful body disappearing into the bathroom where he quickly throws on pants and a fleece top. Before he leaves the bedroom he turns on the fan and closes the door. I fall back to sleep.
This is the routine on weekends and summer mornings. And now weekday ones too.
I want to make peace with this morning storm, it's predictable cacophony and intensity. It's not going to change, only my reaction to it can. I notice my shame and guilt for not wanting to help more. Each morning I stay longer and longer in the bedroom, to clean and make the bed, shower and dress, postpone going out into the kitchen.
Although B has his own large bedroom he occupies almost every other room as well. The electric train set fills the front room, the back living room couch becomes a massive pillow fort, the dining room table a place for learning how to read, the kitchen bar covered in maple syrup. He rarely plays alone, but when he does he sings and dialogues loudly, filling the entire house with his voice. On the rare occasions D takes a moment alone in the bathroom, B still barges in. I don't know if any of this is normal. I don't have children. I consciously decided not to because I was certain I'd be a terrible unpredictable mother.
And it seems to be playing out that way as the girlfriend aunt/sister/mom figure - I'm terrible and unpredictable. I'm not affectionate or funny. I'm cold and distant. I'm too individualistic and lack group skills. I always feel ashamed.
How will I find my way back to accepting myself and also discovering peace?
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