I used to have, shall we say, control issues. I think I’ve gotten better. I mean, I know I’ve gotten better, though I’m sure you’d have to ask David for validation on that one. But my poor brain was always anxious: I had expectations of how events and pieces of life should play out, like scenes in a movie someone had written and refused to revise. I had ideas of how life “should” be, how people should carry themselves, how I was supposed to be. I had a lot of boxes I kept trying to squeeze myself into, and in doing so, did a sorry job of shoving the people I loved into those same, ridiculously uncomfortable, small spaces. That was a long time ago.
I sound like I was just a ball of fun, don’t I?
I was upstairs last week, changing Cian’s diaper while the girls played in the living room of our split-level. Easter had just passed, and all of us, except David, had begun fighting the allergies that kick up as soon as the first leaf buds appear on the trees. And then this happened:
“Mom! Quinn wiped her nose on the couch!”
Of course she did.
“Okay, Saoirse!” I replied. Very calm and cool, I was. “Thanks for telling me.”
I finished changing Cian’s diaper and headed downstairs to do spot removal. All I could do was hope she’d at least gotten the same chair that SK had drawn all over a few months earlier, even though the mucus could’ve matched the old spit-up stains on the couch and the faded marks on the other chair.
Ah, control. What a fanciful notion to have.
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