Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Who Are You And What Are You Doing In My Bathroom?

Sometimes, when the kids napping keeps me from leaving the house and I don't feel like writing, reading or watching TV, I find myself floating here and there on the internet searching for... Well, I don't know what I'm searching for specifically but I'm looking for something.

Sometimes I read NY Times articles, sometimes I read the stuff from other Babble writers or I check out the Huffington Post, which I like a lot, and other times I head out of town. Out of internet town. I like stumbling across blogs that I have never seen before, that I haven't heard anyone talking about. In a weird way it's like meeting a whole new person except I don't have to worry about Talkin' Chive or feeling awkward or anything. I get to meet someone, hear their fresh perspective and listen to their stories from the comfort of my own couch or bed. I don't really like Facebook or Twitter. It's just bullshit. I mean, I like it for certain things but not for the kind of searching-for-something-intense-internet-browsing that I'm talking about.

I like finding blogs that aren't widely read because the tone is a little different than that which is generally found on blogs with a large readership. Less exaggeration and performance, more intimate. Like a journal entry, maybe. It takes a certain kind of person, I think, to gain a large audience and still manage to write intimate, journalish sounding posts. I like those kinds of posts.

In case you're interested, there are a couple blogs I keep going back to for whatever reason. The broad who writes this More Than A Weed blog is really cool. Her kids are named Purslane and Knox, which I like. And then there is this one blog, Aura Joon, I like her. She doesn't write very much anymore but there is much to be read there. And I think I linked to Crummy Mummy Who Drinks a couple years ago.

All three blogs are kind of tucked away in their own little corners of the internet but worth checking out. Knowing there are women like these out there in the world raising up kids and struggling with life and still coming out on top comforts me. When 24-hour news and Trayvon and Mitt and FBI hookers and death, death and more death and Facebook and Twitter and smug Oprah life classes and sexy size zero celebs who had babies two weeks ago and And AND AND... Sometimes when it all gets to be too much I search out these quiet corners of the internet and read. It's nice. I like it and maybe you will too.

I'm still floating, man. Like, out in space slow-style floating. I can see things clearly but feel paralyzed to do anything about anything. I look in the mirror and this slightly bloated, baggy eye-lidded, mom-haired lady stares back at me in confusion. Who are you and what are you doing in my bathroom? she wants to know.

But she is me. I am her. What happened to us?

I have this panicked feeling that my kids' childhoods are roaring past and despite trying to grab myself big handfuls of it all and shove it in my pockets for safekeeping but it's just sifting through my fingers. Today Henry was asking for his "ba-ba" (bottle) and I overheard Serge explaining to Violet that she used to call it a ba-ba too and I thought, No, that's not right. Violet never called it a ba-ba. What did she call it? I couldn't remember. I wanted to rip off the top of my head and root around in there for the memory I was desperately trying to access... It just isn't there.

As I type this I'm trying to picture a one-year-old Violet asking for a bottle and there is nothing there. It panics me. Makes me sick to my stomach that there is nothing there when I try to conjure up specific memories. The harder I think the blacker it gets. Yeah, I can go look at some videos but I don't want to. I want the memories right here inside me and I can't find them! And what are the chances I have a video that shows Violet asking for a bottle? What is wrong with me? Why can't I remember?

So the girl lady in the mirror, I don't recognize her. She has dead eyes. Shark eyes. Who are you and what are you doing in my bathroom? In my life?