#SongoftheDay Old Emotions (Spoons)
Today I feel like that kid who tries to help their parents clean, but ends up making the house way messier than it started out. (I'm thinking of the video my stepdaughter sent us, of our granddaughter sweeping Cheerios into a dustpan and then not noticing as she spilled those same Cheerios out of the dustpan, spraying them around the room like confetti.)
My messy kid-feelings started when my partner told me he was going to walk to the grocery store in town to buy lettuce. It's strawberry season, so I asked him to pick up strawberries too.
When he got home, the tote bag he'd carried the produce in had not only leaked but also ground strawberry juice into his very light-coloured khaki shorts. They were smeared red in multiple places.
I felt like this was my fault, even though he kept assuring me it was not, because I had requested the strawberries.
So I told him to take off his shorts and I would wash out the strawberry before it stained.
After I'd scrubbed the shorts by hand, I wanted to get them right in the wash. Thing is, we don't have a lot of light-coloured clothes. Aside from underwear and socks, the only white garment in the hamper was a button-down shirt my partner had worn to a school reunion. Mostly, our light loads consist of cleaning rags.
I was rounding up anything I could find to bulk up the load when I realized the hat my partner had on could use a wash. He agreed, and I read the washing instructions on the hat while he called his brother.
The hat called for cold water and the delicate cycle. I considered disregarding, but I did not want to ruin his hat. So I started up the washer on delicate and felt pretty good about myself.
...until the bell dinged and I pulled out my partner's white shirt. Which was smeared and dotted in multiple obvious places with something that looked like earwax.
That's when I realized one of the rags I'd thrown in the laundry was the one I'd used when I was degreasing the range hood filter--which had been truly disgusting (the endeavour and the rag). Maybe if I'd washed the whites on hot and on the regular cycle, that grease-soaked rag would have come clean, but it did not. Instead it ground its disgusting stickiness into my partner's good shirt.
He was still on the phone when I noticed this. My stomach sort of dropped with that kid-feeling of "I'm gonna be in big trouble." When I told him what had happened in the wash, I thought he'd disown me, even though he doesn't actually own me and he's never shown signs of becoming angry over such things.
What really happened--in the real world, and not the anxiety world of my child-brain?
My partner looked at the shirt (which I'd already doused with dish soap in hopes of loosening the grease), and he shrugged and said, "Oh well." He really and truly was not concerned. Not mad at me. He takes good care of his belongings, but he wasn't upset that I'd ruined an item of his clothing. He just thanked me again for washing his shorts--and his hat.
I'm trapped in the brain of my kid-self, where making mistakes means danger. When you grow up in a violent household, the fear never leaves you.
But the fear is softening, little by little. The longer I spend with someone who makes me feel safe, the safer I feel. Kind of makes sense, huh?
If you're wondering how you can support me in bringing you songs and anecdotes, the easiest thing you can do is buy my books (most are for adults only!) or check them out from your local library.
My messy kid-feelings started when my partner told me he was going to walk to the grocery store in town to buy lettuce. It's strawberry season, so I asked him to pick up strawberries too.
When he got home, the tote bag he'd carried the produce in had not only leaked but also ground strawberry juice into his very light-coloured khaki shorts. They were smeared red in multiple places.
I felt like this was my fault, even though he kept assuring me it was not, because I had requested the strawberries.
So I told him to take off his shorts and I would wash out the strawberry before it stained.
After I'd scrubbed the shorts by hand, I wanted to get them right in the wash. Thing is, we don't have a lot of light-coloured clothes. Aside from underwear and socks, the only white garment in the hamper was a button-down shirt my partner had worn to a school reunion. Mostly, our light loads consist of cleaning rags.
I was rounding up anything I could find to bulk up the load when I realized the hat my partner had on could use a wash. He agreed, and I read the washing instructions on the hat while he called his brother.
The hat called for cold water and the delicate cycle. I considered disregarding, but I did not want to ruin his hat. So I started up the washer on delicate and felt pretty good about myself.
...until the bell dinged and I pulled out my partner's white shirt. Which was smeared and dotted in multiple obvious places with something that looked like earwax.
That's when I realized one of the rags I'd thrown in the laundry was the one I'd used when I was degreasing the range hood filter--which had been truly disgusting (the endeavour and the rag). Maybe if I'd washed the whites on hot and on the regular cycle, that grease-soaked rag would have come clean, but it did not. Instead it ground its disgusting stickiness into my partner's good shirt.
He was still on the phone when I noticed this. My stomach sort of dropped with that kid-feeling of "I'm gonna be in big trouble." When I told him what had happened in the wash, I thought he'd disown me, even though he doesn't actually own me and he's never shown signs of becoming angry over such things.
What really happened--in the real world, and not the anxiety world of my child-brain?
My partner looked at the shirt (which I'd already doused with dish soap in hopes of loosening the grease), and he shrugged and said, "Oh well." He really and truly was not concerned. Not mad at me. He takes good care of his belongings, but he wasn't upset that I'd ruined an item of his clothing. He just thanked me again for washing his shorts--and his hat.
I'm trapped in the brain of my kid-self, where making mistakes means danger. When you grow up in a violent household, the fear never leaves you.
But the fear is softening, little by little. The longer I spend with someone who makes me feel safe, the safer I feel. Kind of makes sense, huh?
If you're wondering how you can support me in bringing you songs and anecdotes, the easiest thing you can do is buy my books (most are for adults only!) or check them out from your local library.
Supporting my AudioErotica endeavour on Patreon would also help me hugely.
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See you soon!
Giselle
