I told a therapist once that I had no memories between the ages of seven to ten. She said it’s because ‘your needs weren’t being met’. I don’t think that’s quite what does it…in part, I suppose. But also, like the years there in Carteret, they had all blended together, preferably forgettable.
Great, if my kids read this, they’ll be pissed off but it’s not about them. The Mom part was fulfilling. I actually got to see Mr. Clean film a commercial. The kids filled someone’s cesspit with rocks which their dad had to dig out. The guy next door leaped in front of a speeding car because he thought his toddler might be in the road. Frank drove us right through a forest fire for some strange reason. Some lady in a shop found a mouse in a ball of yarn and screamed bloody murder.
So, here’s a part about them! It’s from a small diary I kept during their childhoods, when I seemed to be functioning darn well as a Mommy and wife, but what did I know?