Whenever I write these posts, I try to keep in mind that I’m doing this so that 20, 30 years down the road, the girls or David and I can read them and get a good idea of what life was like way back when.
Yes, I realize that I’m assuming none of us will have anything better to do in 30 years than sit around in our pajamas all day reading decades-old blogs, but humor me. This little blog thing helps keep my feet planted on the ground when everything else is flying by or falling down around my ears.
But today I have nothing. No central story, no anecdote. Just:
- 1 draft of a snarky-yet-professional email to our real estate agent telling her we’re taking the house off the market until our contract with her runs out. Right now it’s more snarky, less professional, so I need to work on that
- 1 toddler who will not remove her hands from around my leg at any time during the day, even when I’m trying to a) shower, b) wash the dishes, c) change pants
- 1 little girl who gets the brunt of any of my frustration, even though she’s seriously, like, incredible
- 4 scoops of mulch about to be dumped on my driveway, which needs resealed, and flowerbeds that need dug/shaped/weeded/planted because dagNABit we are finally tackling the landscaping. We’re really good at ripping out stuff–haven’t quite mastered the putting-it-back-in part
- 37 billion piles and piles of laundry that never seem to go away, along with the dishes and the toys and the shoes and the…
- 2 very emotionally worn-out grown-ups, who’ve struggled with this house thing, struggled with a myriad other stresses that all seem to roll in together like a breaker when the tide’s coming in, struggled to keep it together because the kids don’t miss a trick
- 2 of those same stressed-out grown-ups, who, thankfully, still see each other as part of a team, even if that team does sometimes resemble the Bad News Bears
- And finally, the realization that simpler is better, taking a step back to reassess and regroup is smart, that just because everyone around you seems to be moving along at breakneck speed doesn’t mean you have to be, and, oh, that most people in the world secretly have much messier houses than they’ll ever let on.
I punched myself in the chin the other week during a BodyCombat class at my gym (I’ve been going again to the 5:30 classes, which isn’t quite so evil if you don’ t mind going to bed before the birds do, and your husband is thoughtful enough to have the coffee brewed by the time you come home. But more on the gym thing another time. Bate your breath as needed…). It was an uppercut, right fist, right up to the ol’ mug. It wasn’t a hard hit, just embarrassing, except that most of the other people around me at 5:45 a.m. were also half-asleep. But the misstep happened because I wasn’t focused. I was too worried, too in my head, too busy thinking about all the issues in my brain rather than the fact that I was supposed to make a right jab rather than that damn uppercut.
I have to keep my head out of my phone. I have to go to bed earlier. I have to make more time to play with my kids, rather than just shuttle them around to activities and ask them to help me weed dandelions. I have to make sure I use all the food in my fridge, rather than letting it go to waste, which is why my kitchen is presently under siege and there’s a hideously gross chicken carcass simmering away into stock on the stove. I need to stay on top of the laundry so that Saoirse doesn’t have to come to me again and say, “Mom? I don’t have any underwear in my drawer.” I have to get back to where I was a few months ago, and just relax, and stop thinking so stinking much.
Especially before I head back to that kickboxing class Friday. I hate to see what a right hook to the cheek would look like.