Why it's my bubble

Don't burst my bubble, leave me in my bubble, hate to burst your bubble. Sayings you will hear me say. Yes, cliché, but those were the first phrases that enabled me to set a protective perimeter around my hopes, dreams, views, and physical self. In retrospect, I find it troubling that I found the need to build an imaginary bubble to set a barrier from outside "harm". It may be a reach back to my own childhood where, when things didn't go right (more about that later) I would retreat into my own imagination. Then as a teen, (love those awkward memories), I would use the physical defense of clutching my binder to my chest as I walked through the hallways in highschools, with my head bent to the left shoulder. (Vivid memory of my cousin "Dougie" asking me why I did that) and then oh the struggle to not do that subconsiously. As a young adult, it was eye contact. I felt I couldn't look at anyone (other than my hubby). I felt scrutinized and was so uncomfortable as a young, unwed mother. (Thank goodness hitting my 30's wiped that out for me.)

But I never needed "My Bubble" more than when my daughters entered their glorious teen years. I was jealous of my mother at that time. The tales my brothers would relate about their exploits along the Scarborough bluffs, late night escapades and such and how it was kept from my mother protected her from worry. That was not the case for me.

Having tried to follow society's "Talk with your children" lead has lead me to no end of sleepless nights...because, dagnabbit they talked back. They felt safe with the parental us to relate who their friends were, where they were going, and most times what they were doing. One child in particular has shared, in her words, just about everything. Erego, I dye my hair to reverse the grayed effect. (Thank you Gilles )

Now the two young adult ones giggle as they reveal piece by piece something that scandalizes me. I cry out "Bubble, keep me in my bubble!" But alas, to no avail. As of late, both girls are on difficult paths. I want to build them their own bubbles to envelope them from the outside world. Ivory towers, impassable moats, chain-linked electrified fences. That may be going a tad far, but they (although 21 and 18) are MY babies and I would fight, tear apart, and nuke anyone who intended them harm.

So my blog era is called My Bubble. It is the place I am hammering it down, figuring it out, playing around with it, and taking a stab at it. There is a possibility for great things here, once I figure it out. If you are taking this journey with me, hang on hunny, it's going to be wild, boring, and at times just plan odd. If you know me personally, you would expect nothing less. So step inside my bubble, there's plenty of room.