So I've decided that, quite simply, I don't understand humans. "But you are human!" I hear you cry. Allegedly, that's true. But most of the time I don't understand myself either.
Ever since I opened up about my anxiety about 10 years ago, I've decided that honesty is the best policy. I spent years trying to deal with things on my own, mask the symptoms. Now, I'm a lot better, but I've been through some pretty tough times - partly because of my overactive imagination and partly because of my hormones. And the artificial IVF hormones. Oh, and the pregnancy hormones. Gotta love those hormones.
Anyway, I'm not going to bore you with my weirdness. I know I'm (in some ways) a bit "different." I haven't taken a straightforward route through life; I have a chip on my shoulder about some things from my past; and a lot of the time I've been my own worst enemy - striving for perfection but never quite 'getting there.'
But at least if you know me, you know me. Know what I mean? I am what I am and all that claptrap. I'm not saying I never have a little bitch behind anyone's back. After all, I am a woman. And you know... hormones. But more or less what you see is what you get.
That's why I don't understand humans. Because a lot of humans - sometimes ones you think you know quite well, or even class as 'friends' - have other ideas. Suddenly they are frosty. Suddenly they do something unexpected that makes you think: oh, OK, so we're not really friends? Or - something I find impossible to cope with - have I DONE something?
That's also why I love spending time with kids. They say what they mean - for better or worse. Most of the time.
I have a rather attractive coldsore just under my nose at the moment. Which is nice. Evie, my two year old, ran towards me yesterday morning, arms wide, ready for big, sweep-me-up-in-your-arms mummy cuddle. Then stopped. "What's that?" she said, pointing at my cold-sore.
"It's just a spot, darling." I said. "Come on!" I opened my arms wide, expecting her to leap into them, as she often does.
"Nah." She said. Walking off.
Talking about dishonesty - is there anything worse that Facebook sometimes? I mean, I hate it when people wring their dirty washing in public, or get all vaguebook, by posting a sad face for attention. But it's also a terrible PR platform for people's lives. "How come," I always think, "they're always having such a good time/so much success/are always happy."
I know as well as the next person that we only post the highlights. People probably look at my stuff and think "god, must she always post pictures of her kids/idyllic (hah!) life in France/links to her articles."
I find myself getting jealous and resentful sometimes when I look at other people's pictures or posts - even though I know the 'truth' - that they're a highlight in a probably stressful week/year/life. I play the Facebook game too, yet I fall for it every time.
To top it all off, I'm not sure whether I look young anymore. This is very important to me. Because I spent several years underachieving in life because of my various problems and pregnancies, I feel I need to catch up. And kidding myself that I could still be described as 'young' is part of that. Sad, I know.
Sometimes, I think I look quite good, then - God help me - the sun starts shining, revealing that I'm actually an old hag.
It didn't help that - at bedtime - Lily asked me whether I was once a cavewoman.
"No darling, I'm not quite that old..." I cooed. "The world I was born into was pretty modern. Except, well, we didn't have computers or mobile phones."
Then I realised that - to her - that means I'm an animal-print-wearing, club wielding, only-partially-evolved relic.
"Anyway, go to sleep," I said. "It's far too late for all these questions."
After which I turned off the light so I could no longer see the hag in the mirror.
Mind you, you probably knew where you were with cavewomen. No Facebook, no passive-aggression (probably), no jealousy and no mysterious 'moods'. Perhaps we should all aim to be a bit more primitive.