Тhoughts from my diary — part one ( 12.12.2004 edition)

When I started writing here, I decided to open my old diary (the only one I’ve ever written in) in order to to get ideas from some of its pages.
Topics, moments, events in my life that I consider would be worth sharing.

I knew that the most common topics in there would be:
1. Love problems
2. Mommy issues
I was 15 years old at the time, so give me a break.

Like every other 15 years old girl (or boy) I thought I knew so much of life already.
In some ways I was more mature with my thinking from other teenagers at the time.
I had two divorced parents (this wasn’t so common back then, especially in my country and small town).
Fortunately there wasn’t any abuse or violence before the divorce, so I wasn’t “that kind of mature”.
I didn’t have to grow up faster, like many children of divorced parents do.
I’ve had the fortune (or misfortune) to be only 2 years old when my parents separated, therefore I’ve never had an example from my parents of what a “real” family looks like.
I had to experience more than other children at my age, because I’ve juggled between two houses (week days and weekends), I had to watch my dad’s sadness and loneliness as long as I can remember.
Since it was a second marriage for both of my parents, he gave up, I think. Gave up on love, gave up on being a husband and wanting a lifelong partner.
I believe that for men is more difficult to “hakuna matata” (leave the past behind and try again and again).
They try 1–2 maybe 3 times and think “all women are the same. What’s the point?!” and begin their lone wolf era.

Returning to my humble persona, I have lived my first 6 years of life with a mother figure (2 with both of my parents and remaining 4 with my mom in the week days and with my dad in the weekends).
So there I was 7 years old me, waving goodbye in tears at the bus station, saying goodbye to my mom barely knowing her.
If some of you have read my first story here you would probably remember that my mom decided to emigrate to Italy, so this was the day she left.

During the next 4 years I’ve only spoken to her once or twice a month on the phone (no internet back then).
Those 4 years were actually my best childhood years. I’ve became like Mowgli or Tarzan but with farm animals.
What does that mean you wonder?
As I mentioned we live in a small town. It is a town “on paper” but if you have visited 20 years ago, you couldn’t tell that it was a town, but more of a village.
But don’t get me wrong, this for me it’s not a bad thing. I love my small town, I loved it then and I love it now.

Back then if you go out on the street you could encounter a wooden cart drawn by a horse, or a donkey, with elderly people guiding it.
In the back of the cart there was often a piece of solid iron sticking out of it. And even more often you could see little kids sitting on top of the iron riding on the cart without the knowledge of the elderly peoplе. This was just for fun and in the rare cases when the grandma’ or grandpa’ noticed the kids… oh it was trouble, but a very fun trouble. And yes, of course I was one of those kids.

You could also, casually, see passing thru the streets flocks of sheep, goats or cows with big dogs in front and in the back of the group of animals and of course a shepherd or a cowherd guiding them all to the pasture fields.

This was just everyday life in my little town.

My everyday life in my little town, in my not so little house… it was the most amazing thing I’ve ever lived.
I’ve watched pigs, sheep, goats, cows, dogs and cats give birth.
I’ve cared for their little ones.
It is so fun watch little goats jump around or the calf, of your favorite cow, run to you because you where there since it’s birth and it knows you as if you were its best friend.
I drank real milk, I eat real food, real fruits, real vegetables.
I’ve sat and played with the animals all day after school. I’ve prepared them their “meals” (the usual stuff, to which I would just add water and I would think that I’ve made them a really tasty stuff).

Back then I thought this was such a normal thing and that everyone gets to live like this.

And then… I grew up.

I grew up and I chose to go to live to Italy with my mom, because people told me “Go there, you would have a better future”.

When I arrived there at first everyone thought that I was raised in the woods (as we say in Bulgaria).
I was such a wild child in the very sense of the word and I`ve barely know 10 words in Italian.

Fortunately we had animals there too.
My mom had an Italian boyfriend who lived outside town.
There was a big garden with olive threes, flowers, vegetables fruits, a few chickens, ducks, bunnies and two peacocкs.
No need to tell you that my first few months in Italy I’ve spent mostly there or at the sea.
I was 11 years old back then.

And then I had to grow up. Real fast.

Me and my mom, we hadn’t seen each other in 4 years. The first night I spent in an unknown country, in an unknown house, I went asleep with her by my side, only to wake up in the middle of the night alone.
I had to cry out load for what felt an eternity for me, so she can hear me and return to the room. She, obviously, though it was a good idea to return to her bedroom to her boyfriend and leave me alone to sleep.
Normally this would’ve been a good choice, but not when your child never knew this place, this house, this world.
This night remains in my mind still like it was yesterday and I am 36 now.
This is the reason I co-sleep with my two kids and don’t intent to stop until they decide that it is time to sleep in their beds.
Maybe it’s right or maybe it’s wrong, I’ve herd and read so many opinions on the matter and I’ve arrived to the conclusion that every parent must do what they think it’s right for their children.

Then the house chores came… (this is the topic I’ve found in my diary pages).

The chores…

Everyday I had several of them.
After school, I had to obviously wash the dishes (no dishwasher), to dry them (with a towel cloth) and obviously to put them in their places.
Then it was the laundry…
Oh how I hate it even now.
The laundry had to be sorted by type (both on the clothes rack and while folding it).
The towels go with the towels, the socks go with the socks etc. I think you’ve got it by now.
The ironing of the laundry before folding it… Oh and how much I ironed… the towels, the socks, even the dust cloths. Everything had to be ironed. This is why now I hate, HATE ironing.
Then there was the vacuum (of the entire house), the dust, the sweeping of the yard outside (big yard — remember?), cleaning the fire place (in winter) and then starting the fire, before they return home so it would be warm at home.

Every house chore a woman has — she made it my responsibility.
Like I was obligated to do everything because I had the privilege to live there.
I now understand that she somehow, maybe, wanted to teach me “how to be a women, a wife, a mother” — however the only problem was that when she returned home — she did not tell me “Good job, I’m proud of you.”
Instead she criticized me.
- “What did you do all day? Why isn’t everything clean? I gave you 5 chores, Why only 4 of them are done?”
And even if I did made all of them, some of them weren’t perfectly executed and this was also a problem.
I was 11, 12, 13 years old.

Not to mention that I almost never got to go out with my friends.
Because of the fact that I lived outside town I couldn’t obviously drive myself to town, there wasn’t a bus stop near our house and everyone was always busy with something else and never had time to drive me and come back for me later to pick me up.
The only times I could go out with my friends I had to sleep over my classmate’s or my cousin’s house, but this was rarely the case.

This way from a child with a free spirit, with many friend, a loving father and family around.
I’ve became a prisoner and a slave. Property of my own mother.
You may think this is a little bit exaggerated, but this is how I felt back then and even now as I am a grown woman, wife and a mother with two kids (one of them being a girl) I still feel like this a little bit.

I understand that she made sacrifices and had to work hard.
I understand that she wanted to teach me early, so it will be easier when I’m older. I appreciate some of it now, but not all.
I don’t understand why she never talked with me about anything, never told me she was proud of what I’m doing. It was even difficult for her to tell me she loves me.
I don’t remember ever hearing that. Maybe with the all the time that has passed it is possible that I forgot, but I don’t thing so.
The first time I’ve heard her saying something similar of “I love you” was when I gave birth to my daughter (my firstborn).
She ASKED me “Do you think you love her, as much as I love you?”
I responded “I am sure that I love her more, than you love me…”

Now my daughter is almost 9 years old.
I wasn’t used to tell someone so often “I love you” because… you know… I didn’t hear it so often myself.
Thank God for my dad, that showed me love worth not 2 but a 1000 parents.
When I had my girl, I told myself “Now I will do everything different”.
I tell her I love her so many times that she started telling it to me even more that it’s almost annoying.
I hug her and kiss her . I speak with her about everything. About friendships, love, I give her advices… I try to do the the things, that I never received from my mother. However, somehow… at some point, I became her..

Everyday I criticize my daughter for everything.
“Why do you sit like that? Why I have to repeat something a 100 times for you to listen? Why are you so slow in the morning? Why aren’t you ready yet? Why did you leave your shoes like this? Why did you leave your backpack there?” and a thousand more. Every day… sometimes when I catch myself doing this I wonder “is this really necessary?”
I do believe, that I do this to help her for the future “to teach her how to be independent”, but at the end of the day she is still sad about the way I speak to her.
Overwhelmed by all the things I have to do, or by something else that happened during the day, I don’t always have the patience to speak with a normal volume.
I don’t scream often, but I criticize with a certain tone of the voice. I, myself, hate the person that I am becoming more and more each day especially with her.
Don’t get me wrong, she is not a perfect little angel. She is like every other kid.
She asks the same questions hundreds of times a day. She does not listen to anything I am saying, especially when I tell her to do something. She says “okay” and two seconds later she forgets about it.
When she want something, she does not give up. Asks again and again and again….. hoping that I’ll give up eventually and say “okay”.

What if I was just like that back then? What if it wasn’t all my moms fault?
I don’t remember being like that.
Sometimes, when we all three are together and my daughter annoys the hell out of me, I ask my mom “was I like that?” and she only smiles.
Is this a “yes”? — Maybe, who knows. She never talked to me before, why start now.

As the time passes I catch myself becoming more and more like her.
I hope I am doing something different though, otherwise my daughter will resent me all her life.

What is the secret of raising children, who will become good people, but at the same time who were happy kids with good memories of their parents?

I think that the answer is — Only time will tell.
However, we have to try to be our best self around our kids, even when our life isn’t easy, we have to at least try to show them our love. Show them that we are proud of them, even for the little things. Show them that they are important, no matter what.
Even if they did not do all the chores, even if they ask a 100 times the same question, which seem so stupid and irrelevant to us. It is not to them.

We cannot always say “yes” to everything they want, but we can at least explain to them why we say “no”.
And no, the answer to their “why” is not “because I said so” (one of my mom’s favorite responses to my “whys”).
Maybe if she tried to talk to me more, and actually tell me why, I would’ve understand her better in the first place and now we would not be so distant.

In conclusion, the best thing we can do, that I believe would be helpful, with all our human interactions, is to “put ourselves in the shoes of the person in front of us”.
What would we like to hear? How would we like to be treated?
Would we like to receive love and affection from our parents?
(I think this last question is a bit rhetorical).