Two jelly beans on Easter, observed in their natural habitat after narrowly escaping from a plastic egg.
At a time when I need an extra day of the week wedged somewhere magically between Friday and Saturday, I’ve been losing time to migraines. Even with the powerful medication I take, hours sink into a black pit of foggy pain pulsating at the edge of my brain.
When I am mid-migraine, I hate the way it makes me crumble in weakness and agony like a horse whose legs buckle midstride. I get up anyway and push through the pain and the medicine, knowing that there will be empty spaces in my memory spool when I come around again. I feel that my brain is being eroded by the pain and the drugs and that when I revive, I will be a little less of my former self. Always, always on the outside of myself, to watch this degradation of self and strength is frustrating and cruel…I mean, at least they shoot horses.
But that’s the subject of an entire movie, isn’t it ?
I play out the worst case scenario for my daughters all the time. It’s practically biblical apocalypse in my house all the time.
Unfortunately for them, they get the double whammy treatment because not only am I a neurotic mom, but I also practice worst case scenario thinking as part of my daily occupation.
Luckily for me, they both possess the rash exuberance of youth and discount 2/3 of what I set out as viable possibilities.
If nothing else, I can assure myself that I’m creating rich fodder for their not-so-later years in adult psychotherapy.
This was mid life as observed in the wealthy suburbs: when discussions of squabbles with children, vacation plans and landscaping ideas and debates about dog poop and other daily nuisances became the things that most deeply connected her to other people – not shared ethics or political values, not a quiet sense of trusted mutual reliance – in fact, nothing with emotional substance or moral sustenance – just the superficially inane and the mundane.
So she just smiled at the neighbor across the street, closed the front door of her nice home and locked it.
She’d be better off sticking to her dog and her coffee and her innermost thoughts than creating false relationships that would crumble under the slightest weight.
Lately, I am overwrought with mommy angst and overrun with mommy chores —- I can barely think about work. You know: work, that thing that underpins everything I am able to provide as a mommy. Work, which is my new spouse – or maybe my always lover ? – the one on the list that comes somewhere after the kids but still well ahead of me. I remember what happened the last time this was the order of my world – ugh.
If I am to avoid a repeat failure, I know it’s time for some serious prioritizing, pruning, delegation and sometimes just plain old surrender.
Because I’m not sure which I hate more: failure or surrender.
this blank space
in my brain, an
soul. my therapist
All of my older child’s plans develop like summer storms : sudden. unexpected. torrential.
And quite frankly, my parental umbrella is about to break.