I've reached the segment of our program where I'm finding it difficult say much, to anyone. Never mind writing about my delicate feeeeelings, Otto's customary "How was your day?" query as we're getting settled in bed at night is enough to render me speechless. How was my day? Ummm, Chickadee remains medically fragile and I think Monkey has another sinus infection (which you understand to mean "He says he feels fine, but he's being a complete butthead at school and has a nasty cough, so that probably means he's sick"), so my days mostly feel like a mad dash from here to there, cradling a...
The sucky thing about a prolonged run of bad luck is that, well, it sucks. It's stressful and people get sick of listening to you whine (I assume; when I reach the point where I'm actually tired of whining, I pretty much figure that anyone who's been subjected to it is probably fantasizing about smothering me in my sleep) and I much prefer that idyllic life we used to have where cartoon bluebirds sat on my shoulders as I pranced through the daisies. Okay, fine. We don't have any daisies. Grant me a little poetic license in my time of woe, OKAY? But the GREAT thing about a prolonged run of...
Monkey is back to school again, leaving a trail of sodden, wadded up Kleenex behind him where he goes. (Dear Hippie School: I'm sorry. I'll send in some hand sanitizer.) Chickadee is also at school---inbetween the doctors' appointments---though today we have to go see an orthopedist because something is inexplicably wrong with her hip, and also possibly because an orthopedist may be the only specialist we haven't seen this year yet. (HAHAHAHAHA HA HA haaaaaaa ha *sob*.) Whether it's shared germs or stress or the ridiculous level of pollen going on here right now, I'm feeling the strong urge...
This week is Operation Rejoin The Human Race. Oh, I know, you weren't aware that I left. But I did! Every now and then my natural tendencies towards hermit-tude intersect with massive life suckage and then I go underground (metaphorically---the clay in Georgia is far too hard for actual tunneling) and the extent of what I say in public is limited to things like, "The sunlight! IT BURNS!" At a certain point, my darling husband starts looking at me with a gaze tinged with equal parts pity and fear, and then I know it's time to pull myself up by my bootstraps. Or shave my legs again. Whatever....
... I bet you think my post over at Off Our Chests today is about me. Oh, wait. It is. Heh. The thing is, I feel I've reached something of a crossroads right now. I'm standing firmly at the intersection of "what I've always done" and "changed priorities" and I'm just... not entirely sure what comes next. What should come next, or what I want to have come next. Naturally, it's a post about my hair. Come on over and weigh in, because I have no idea what to do. And clearly this is the most crucial and pressing issue I'm facing right now. [Insert slightly-hysterical laughter here.]
You know, I thought I was holding things together pretty well, considering. Sure, it's been stressful, but I'm still standing. [Insert cheesy musical interlude here.] I wasn't patting myself on the back, or anything, but I thought I was doing okay. This morning, Otto got up before me, before his alarm, even, and I continued to lie in bed, dozing, until his alarm went off. And then I flopped my way over to his side of the bed and began beating about on his alarm clock, trying to figure out how to make it stop going WAH WAH WAH WAH. Nothing I did seemed to work. And Otto was in the bathroom....
Oh, hey. Sorry to leave you hanging for a week. I didn't mean to, it just sort of... happened. It turns out that when my kid is in the hospital my level of functioning reverts to "barely alive" and I am a total delight to be around. Like, Otto will come home from work and say, "How was your day?" and I'll blink at him and say, "I'm not sure." Then he'll say, "What's for dinner?" and I'll say, "Dinner?" Actual conversation we had this week: Me: Why did you marry me? Our life is a mess. I'm a mess. Otto: Well you weren't ALWAYS a mess. I assume eventually you'll not be a mess again. Me:...
"Journaling is stupid," Chickadee said to me last night, out of nowhere, as we were driving to pick up pizza for dinner. I blinked at her. "Ummm," I said, helpfully. "Don't you have a diary you write in?" "Yes, but that's just it. It's dumb. People keep telling me it'll help to WRITE ABOUT MY FEELINGS and you know what? It doesn't. It's stupid. It just makes me dwell on the stuff I shouldn't and I never feel better, after." "I feel better when I write about stuff," I offered. Because it's true. "But... maybe you're just more of an action-item type. Maybe instead of writing about how you...
I cannot tell a lie: When it came time, at the end of yesterday's adventure in the woods, to go around the circle and share what we were grateful for, I said I was grateful that no one had licked any slugs. When one of the guides shot me kind of a funny look, I added, "Um... at least as far as I'm aware...?" (I'm available for parties, people!) At one point we came to a broad, shallow spot in a creek where there were lots of flat rocks rising up out of the middle of the water, and---being as how it's the middle of February and, therefore, a chilly 76 degrees here in Global Warming Is A...
