minor confessions

I sneak Scooby Doo fruit snacks from my own pantry every night. I stare, practically paralyzed, at my child after he has fallen asleep. I smell his hair, listen to his breathing, and feel his tiny shoulder with my hand. I am afraid of almost everything. I rip up my cuticles when I'm preoccupied or nervous. I don't want to join the PTA. I sing 80s rock ballads really loud in my car because I know all the words. I love watching Family Feud and Murder She Wrote. I think I'm recovering from a case of Athlete's Foot, but I have no idea how I got it. I sometimes wish I could be a big, black jazz singer in a red sequined dress instead of a skinny white girl with anxiety issues. I have no idea what I'm doing. I always cry when I'm angry; it makes my face puffy and purple, but my eyes turn an amazing shade of electric blue. I am alternately fearful of and content with my own hypocrisy. I have been terrified of vomiting since I was six. I feel like I'm always a step behind. I've been systematically sneaking Liam's Easter candy. I love bologna (the meat product, not the city). Someday I would like to travel to India, but I'm scared of what my phobia would do to me while I was there. The second toe on my left foot is longer than that on my right and I have an extra set of ribs. When I was born I was pigeon-toed and had to wear leg braces as a toddler to straighten out my feet. I like my freckles now. I have nightmares that my hair is long again and wake up in a panic. Sometimes I get sick of hearing my own voice.