I’ve blogged for ages. Sometimes I need it. Sometimes I need a laugh. Sometimes the two collide and, well, that’s how I roll.
I’ve been seeking something therapeutic for myself, in addition to the other therapies in which I love to indulge. Sometimes, I need that decadence… when everyone else needs to fade, even if it is just for a second.
I’m the glue. And, I know I’m not alone. That’s my job. I do what everyone needs. I’m the event coordinator for this family, which gets a little old. Funny enough, it fed me for years. As long as I was needed by my people, I was good to go. Today, I feel like I’m trapped on a Tilt-A-Whirl and no matter how hard I scream, the friggin’ carnie can’t hear me begging to get off the ride. Dude, I’m gonna puke.
I was an empty nester. And I wasn’t one of those empty nesters who bemoans the empty nest and wonders what to do with her time. I embraced that shit. Because, who doesn’t enjoy a job well done? It was my reward. I was a young mom. It was my identity, but not so much that I lost who I was in the Motherhood. I was *THE* team mom. I was the support person. I drove the kids, all the kids, everyone’s kids everywhere. I bought the posterboard. I baked the cupcakes (and I hate cupcakes with a fervor as flaming hot as anything, unless someone makes them for me, in which case, give me a damned cupcake and then back away). I cleaned and cooked. I waited in bleachers in the rain, the cold, and the fother mucking wind for years, all the while suffering from the numbing I like to call Bleacher Ass. I took kids to the mall and tried to disappear so as not to damage their precious little psyches should they catch a glimpse of the horror that is their mother. I counseled my kids. I counseled the kids of others. I listened to a lot of damned syllables. So many syllables. And when the time came, I was excited about hanging all that up.
That lasted a year. One.
Then, bad fortune struck the eldest and we had ourselves a Boomerang Baby. No physical harm was done, but it really was the perfect storm of Holy Crap. I thought I had equipped her. And, I had. Maybe. But, that bedroom down the hall seemed so undeniably cozy and then, she asked. Like idiots, we said it was okay. Even the moving was insanity. It couldn’t be simple. But, we all worked out a map to success and I was hopeful. I need to remind you here, I’m a moron.
That map was lost, washed away in a flood, and used as toilet paper.
I thought it was still okay.
SIX AND A HALF MONTHS LATER and a handful of bills which we paid that weren’t ours, we are still waiting. Slowly, there are teensy glimmers of success on her scorecard. Maybe she’ll get it this time around. Until then, I remind myself to breathe.
We were silly to think that was the real challenge.
Numero Dos moved back home-ish for the summer bringing his baggage. His problem? He’s a genius. Don’t laugh. He’s so smart, Life regularly kicks his ass. Because he is so stuck in thinking that actually acting on anything is incomprehensible. There is no little little thing in his world (and consequently, mine). Each thing is Goliath. The failure to understand how enacting a plan of action leads to success down the road is much too much and must be tantrummed to all unholy Hell. Satan be damned when everything that once was manageable becomes a tragedy of unparalleled proportion requiring the gnashing of teeth and the tearing of clothes. Literally.
At least twice a day I grab my planner and count days. Because, you know, I can do anything if I can just know how long I have to do it.
Working from home for the last twelve years was amazing for me. I was the mistress of my own destiny; I was Queen Mom, Superwife, and I made some good money while I contemplated whether I would shower that day or not. I still love working from home, until my home is spilling over with adults who need to embark upon their own successes and leave me to reassemble my heavenly haven.
I’m not cooking dinner tonight. Just deal with it.