My son’s birthday is usually a day that I savor, but this time it sucked. Not anything to do with his birthday, but mostly to do with my relationships with people at the party. I’m having trouble relating to most everyone, except Arp, that is. It’s a lonely place to be. Maybe I would usually feel less lonely, as Arp and I usually spend lots of time together talking. But with his work schedule lately, I’ve been left with the continual knowledge that I feel like an absolute stranger around other people most times.

Some memories of the party…

My ninety-year-old Nana grilling me about Costa Rica, whether I really want to go there, and what the heck will happen to our house if it doesn’t sell. I managed to smile through the doubting questions, and lied about the house issues. I wonder when the truth will get to her, and if she will ever talk to me about it.

My sister, the nursery school teacher, confronting me about whether I have ever considered having J evaluated for speech problems, and then my BIL separately confronting Arp about it. Since I would generally characterize my BIL as totally clueless about young children, I know my sister put him up to it. I told her off, and explained to her how I wasn’t interested in how J compares to other 3 year olds, and how I hoped she’d leave her nursery school crap at the door. Now I’m constantly coming back to being irritated that my family is actually sitting around evaluating how my daughter compares to other school kids. Think they have any clue what unschooling is about?

My sister (same one) brings a copy of some paper that my nephew wrote in school, and asks me to read it and mark up all his mistakes. I refuse to put myself in the place of grading and judging my nephew, and tell her that I object. Then she passes the paper around to a bunch of other family members, including BIL the teacher, who uses a red pen to mark every frickin’ “flaw”. Note that nephew has not given anyone permission to read it except for me (at the prompting of his mother, though he doesn’t actually want my help or anything). Then other people look at it and make comments about my nephew, including what a large font he used, spelling mistakes, etc. His mother publicly calls him lazy. I finally agree to read it because my nephew said it was OK. My response: “It looks like he really enjoyed reading the book!” I give a big smile and hand it back to my sister.

I also have to deal with my mother, who is so out of touch with me that she brought me an empty egg carton for my duck eggs. My ducks haven’t been producing for several months, two of them died, and we are preparing to give them to friends in preparation for our move to Costa Rica. Then she tells me a long and drawn out story about how a friend of hers told her all about this University in Costa Rica, and how it would be such a good place for me or Arp to get a job. Why I would want to get a job at a university is beyond me. Does she know anything about my career goals? Of course, this comes after an incident earlier in the week where she initially claims she will come to see a big project that Arp and I have spent the last 3 years working on, and then cancels at the last minute with apparently no excuse or apology. This is probably the last time she will have the opportunity to view this special project, as she passed up earlier opportunities to see it.

My mother and my MIL start discussing all my character traits in a room full of people, like I’m not even there.

Earlier in the party, before much of this crap went down, I confide in my sisters that I’ve been feeling a lot like The Stranger lately.  I was actually thinking of Camus, but they assumed I was talking about Billy Joel, and we started signing the lyrics.  I think, of my sisters, I knew the lyrics best.  But still, I’m sitting her wondering whether I’m more similar to Camus’ stranger, or Joel’s.

Arp tells me he’s been cultivating his own oddness of personality, his difference, for years.  I envy him.  He seems so comfortable in his being relatively alone.  How can I get there?  That place of comfort, I mean.

I should be happy.  M loved his birthday party.  That’s the most important thing, right?  Oh, but why am I left with such a bad taste in my mouth?