This past week has been Spring Break for 3 of the 4 members of the house. (One of these things - ME - is not like the others.) The boy decided late that what with the influx of relatively unscheduled days, he needed to take the girls somewhere. Two days later, he had a snazzy little hotel booked and plans in place.
When he gets a bee in his bonnet, he's on top of things.
This is in comparison with me who takes on the challenge of finding the cutest, breakfastiest, comfiest, all-you-can-drink-coffee-and-afternoon-cookies-iest place to stay and all for the affordable-iest price. I spend a few hours (e.g. d-a-y-s) on this process in part because I like me some virtual window shopping. The boy is kind of a get-in-and-get-out kind of person.
For about 30 seconds at the beginning of the "I think I want to go somewhere for a couple of nights over Spring Break" discussion, we flirted with the possibility of all 4 of us going somewhere. You know, like a normal family.
And then we were both all like "diabetic cat," and that kind of quashed all chances of familial bliss in a Days Inn. Like that was going to happen anyway. So, like many a decision that has to be made, color me the sacrificing individual who bore the brunt of shooting the insulin twice a day and, you know, doing some amount of teaching, too. I was committed to being here anyway, but it seems like I could blame our planning on the cat. (By the way, I've always appreciated how easy cats are to take care of. No one ever whispered a word of warning in my ear that sometimes, they're a bit of a bother.) So the boy did what the boy always talks about doing, which is to call up his siblings and find out if either of them feel like being around us. Turns out, one of them was game, so the boy found the hotel, packed up the kids (by way of me, obviously, because are we to believe that he did the packing of the sundries while I lazed about with a hot cup of tea and a scone?), and stole my car for a couple of days leaving me an empty house, a crumby kitchen floor, a dependent cat, papers to grade, and almost no gas in his car.
Actually, he up and left, thereby leaving me with this glorious thing called s-p-a-c-e as well as a fair bit of q-u-i-e-t.
The boy is an all-around keeper. I've no need of roses, just buy me a quiet house any day.
Admittedly, in hushed tones, I asked him "Are you sure you wanna do this?" and he replied "Yeah, I do. I'm a dad." and far be it from me to question that.
Not only did he take on the task of being pack mule and referee, but also he found a hotel room (singular, not a suite) with two queen beds. This means that our children had to fall asleep in the same room. THE SAME ROOM. This has never (ever ever ever) gone well, though we have tried. But he managed fairly well utilizing a 2-part plan of attack: use an extra sheet and some rope as a room divider and wear them out so they have nothing left to fight with. Basically, it was like he had them under siege in their castles, holding out until all of their energy supplies were depleted. 'Cause that's a parent-of-the-year approach.
He found a place with both breakfast (various carb options for the win!) and an indoor pool, and oh the glories, oh the blessings! You know when you call to chat with your children when they're in this manna-from-Heaven situation that you need to be prepared to talk about how "The water was so warm!" and "I had a doughnut!" and even "I had juice and sausage and a waffle and the hot tub had a little shelf, so I put my feet in and then I had eggs and now my tummy hurts just a little but it's OK because Daddy took us into the deep end of the pool!!!" And then my kid would ask me what I've been doing, and talk about letting the air out of the balloon cause "I graded!" and "I swept the floor!" and "I bought stamps!" just doesn't have the same flavor. Her stories were like gumballs and unicorns whereas mine were like dried gum on the underside of a desk and the tired looking work horses standing around placidly chewing hay. But props to her for showing an honest effort at caring about her out of sight, out of mind mother. I have high hopes for how our phone conversations will go when she's in college.
But the days went by and the nights went by (in a glorious sort of I-have-the-bed-all-to-myself-and-it-is-fabulous kind of way), and my people returned. They brought some amount of noise back with them (just for me!) and in exchange took away a good amount of the space that I had been hoarding in their absence.
But everything was checked off of my to-do list by the time they stumbled in the door, which makes one feel both exhilarated (I was so productive; let's count how many things I checked off [smiley face]!) as well as deflated (I was so blasted productive that all I did was work [sad face].) So I made up for that spurt of activity and read a magazine in the middle of their chaos because if I can't get around to it when they're gone, then why not when they're home? Mindless activity also helps to ignore the shrieking.
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Friday, March 25, 2016
Couch potato
I have a log that I've been keeping lately on my nightstand, detailing when I actually sleep in my bed versus when I sleep (happily, I might add) on my couch. And, folks, the couch is the clear winner.
So, I've been having problems sleeping.
Correct that, I've been having MEGA SUPER DUPER EXTREMO problems getting to sleep. For about 6 months. Or my whole life.
Inevitably, when I put the book down and turn the light off, one of three things happens.
1. I fall asleep fairly easily. (That doesn't happen much anymore.)
2. I drift off and then magically find myself wide awake 15-30 minutes after trying to go to sleep. (I love it when this happens.)
3. My mind performs mental aerobics about e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. This includes everything from renditions of Let It Go on repeat to ohmygoodnessohmygoodnessohmygoodness to "Hey, I'm really comfortable. I'm so glad that I'm fully awake to enjoy this feeling of comfort."
But. My refrigerator hums a merry tune of white noise and my couch is delightfully comfortable. And that combo puts me to sleep every time. Not only that, but I sleep well. So it's really something of a toss-up some nights; I don't even miss my bed when Option B is Option Pretty Wonderful.
I've come across a couple of "Here's How to Sleep Better in 10 Easy Steps!" pieces lately, and yeah..nothing. And I'm actually sharing this for a particular reason; I'm a pretty firm believer that you don't have to share a bedroom if you're married. Why? Instead, sleep when and how you need to sleep. So, I'll probably just keep on keeping on - throwing down my little couch nest and getting cozy.
Plus, the kiddos pile on me in the mornings if I'm still there, and that's always a happy time.
So, I've been having problems sleeping.
Correct that, I've been having MEGA SUPER DUPER EXTREMO problems getting to sleep. For about 6 months. Or my whole life.
Inevitably, when I put the book down and turn the light off, one of three things happens.
1. I fall asleep fairly easily. (That doesn't happen much anymore.)
2. I drift off and then magically find myself wide awake 15-30 minutes after trying to go to sleep. (I love it when this happens.)
3. My mind performs mental aerobics about e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. This includes everything from renditions of Let It Go on repeat to ohmygoodnessohmygoodnessohmygoodness to "Hey, I'm really comfortable. I'm so glad that I'm fully awake to enjoy this feeling of comfort."
But. My refrigerator hums a merry tune of white noise and my couch is delightfully comfortable. And that combo puts me to sleep every time. Not only that, but I sleep well. So it's really something of a toss-up some nights; I don't even miss my bed when Option B is Option Pretty Wonderful.
I've come across a couple of "Here's How to Sleep Better in 10 Easy Steps!" pieces lately, and yeah..nothing. And I'm actually sharing this for a particular reason; I'm a pretty firm believer that you don't have to share a bedroom if you're married. Why? Instead, sleep when and how you need to sleep. So, I'll probably just keep on keeping on - throwing down my little couch nest and getting cozy.
Plus, the kiddos pile on me in the mornings if I'm still there, and that's always a happy time.
Friday, March 18, 2016
ISO: a new friend, needed immediately
MMo2 (married mom of two) in search of: a new friend, needed immediately
(actually, needed quite some time ago, so pretty desperate here)
There are a few requirements and taste preferences, so please read each carefully before applying.
*female or male - not picky
*would be nice if you're also a parent, but not a deal breaker
*can demonstrate a high level of sanity (this is a deal breaker)
*understands when I'll go AWOL for a few days, acts like it never happened, and feels comfortable doing the same
*enjoys eating (sometimes I gotta bake and have no where to store more muffins)
*is always up for keeping me company when I get a pedicure
*calls me when you're stuck at the tire place on a Saturday morning
*understands that my kids don't like other people touching them and being in their space
*respectfully agrees to not destroy my hard fought battle to limit excessive amounts of sugar and food dyes in my kids' food
*political preference - your choice (!) so long as we can agree to disagree without the need to always be right or judgy
*doesn't need me to talk incessantly on the phone but does answer my random texts
*trusts me to watch your kids/pets/husband (as the case may be) and know that he/she/it/they will be alive when you return
*feels comfortable walking in my house without knocking first
*understands that I watch baseball a lot
*understands that I don't clean a lot
*understands that I am a cat person but can still love your dog and thus expect the same in return
CUBS FANS NEED NOT APPLY. I can neither support nor condone your woeful choices and behavior.
(actually, needed quite some time ago, so pretty desperate here)
There are a few requirements and taste preferences, so please read each carefully before applying.
*female or male - not picky
*would be nice if you're also a parent, but not a deal breaker
*can demonstrate a high level of sanity (this is a deal breaker)
*understands when I'll go AWOL for a few days, acts like it never happened, and feels comfortable doing the same
*enjoys eating (sometimes I gotta bake and have no where to store more muffins)
*is always up for keeping me company when I get a pedicure
*calls me when you're stuck at the tire place on a Saturday morning
*understands that my kids don't like other people touching them and being in their space
*respectfully agrees to not destroy my hard fought battle to limit excessive amounts of sugar and food dyes in my kids' food
*political preference - your choice (!) so long as we can agree to disagree without the need to always be right or judgy
*doesn't need me to talk incessantly on the phone but does answer my random texts
*trusts me to watch your kids/pets/husband (as the case may be) and know that he/she/it/they will be alive when you return
*feels comfortable walking in my house without knocking first
*understands that I watch baseball a lot
*understands that I don't clean a lot
*understands that I am a cat person but can still love your dog and thus expect the same in return
CUBS FANS NEED NOT APPLY. I can neither support nor condone your woeful choices and behavior.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Not much of anything, so a little bit of nothing
***UPDATE*** It's now Tuesday cause the internet went sketchy when I was trying to post this, but whatevs...still not much happening, so here you are.
Well, I'm slowly crawling out of the nether regions of grading Purgatory, and it's good see some light. You know I've been busy when I haven't even been devoting critical brain cell memory chip space to thinking about random and fairly useless bits of anything on here.
And because of that, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT. But it's one of those days when, dadgumit, I'm gonna get my write on because I have about 15 minutes. I tell ya, I can make 15 minutes count for something.
Like writing about useless bits of nothing? Hypocrite.
But it's a soul satisfying 15 minutes.
Unless I'm unloading and re-loading the dishwasher for that 15 minutes, which isn't so much "soul satisfying" as "keeping the crazy at bay satisfying."
SO. What to ramble on about for
1. I haven't been back up to visit my parents since Christmas, and they live just a tick under 2 hours away.
2. I'm a pantry hoarder. I find things on clearance and buy out the store: 10 cans of pumpkin, 8 boxes of mac & cheese. 4 honey bears. It's a good feeling to think "Crud! I need something to send in the child's lunch tomorrow. I need to make muffins or something." And then you scan your pantry and find 10 cans of pumpkin, which equals 20 batches of pumpkin chocolate chip muffins. Thanks, pantry.
3. I broke out 'ye olde bassoon a couple of months ago to play at our church for the first time. Color me nervous. Now I have one week to prepare a piece for next week. But it's purty slow, so there's some hope for it yet.
4. Weekends don't really do anything for me. Have I said that before? Just slipping this in (again).
5. Chocolate and bread products do some a great deal of something for me. I'm nothing if not a stress eater.
6. My children still sing "Let It Go" on endless repeat. AND I LOVE IT. "Funny how some dissidence, makes EVERYTHING seem small..." Indeed.
7. I have six minutes left, and it's not because I type slowly. It's because what else is there to say?
8. It's going to rain all week. There's that.
9. My favorite coffee shop hasn't had my preferred flavors of late. But they have all figured it out that I bring my own cup sleeve, and that's a sign that you're IN with the baristas.
10. Track season is starting, which means the boy is going to be MIA for about the next 3 months. And I read a memoir by an ultra runner. One would think that these two items would indicate that I have an interest in running and track-y things. One would be incorrect. I just like the boy, and I've discovered that memoirs are my happy place.
And I will end with this (3 minutes): I'm reading the most recent novel by MY FAVORITE AUTHOR EVER, and sadly, it's mediocre so far. Mediocre, I say. It has me weeping salty tears behind my bookish glasses. But, ah well. Even a little Allende makes my world go 'round.
Happy Monday, my friends.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Worried free
I got a nifty little phone call today. My husband's doctor's office about a bit of insignificance and, it just so happens, I'm not allowed to hear details over the phone because HE HASN'T AUTHORIZED ME to do so.
Well.
I'm starting to rethink all of the forms that on which he's my one and only. I might have to start making some calls. I mean, fair is fair.
I'm legally obligated to pay off all of his debts in the event of his death, but I can't find out what killed him.
I'm also entitled to all of his worldly possessions upon his demise, so there is an upswing there. I can't wait for the day until that stack of Scientific American are mine and mine alone.
Not so. Those are hitting the Goodwill or the recycling bin. (Especially now that I found out I'm not married to you HIPPA-ly ever after.)
But in all actuality, there are some interesting bits that come out of those Scientific A-blah-blah-blah magazines. Usually, they surface when I'm trying to read something that's actually interesting and he's trying to regale me with theoretical gobbledy-gook. We're something of a matched set: I know about the good stuff and he mops up all of the rest.
Last night, however, the Scientific American proved that I'm not too much of an over-anxious, overly worried nitwit. (It's good to be assured of this occasionally.) The boy was reading (and then regaling me) about a study or op-ed or some such thing about the needless bits that average Americans worry about, i.e. carcinogens in food and other things that I can't now remember because I was maybe only half listening. And at the end of this list, the boy stopped and asked me "Are you worried about any of those?"
You feel like you really know someone and then you find out that they're not even positive about your deepest fears and about the things that keep your mind racing at night.
No, spouse. Those are not in my wheelhouse of things that drive me batty with worry. (I could easily match that list point by point and then some, though.)
I'm not a completely overly zealous worrier of inconsequential but socially popular non-issues. It's like I'm a less than average worrier. I don't have to be worried about my worrying. Three cheers for that.
Well.
I'm starting to rethink all of the forms that on which he's my one and only. I might have to start making some calls. I mean, fair is fair.
I'm legally obligated to pay off all of his debts in the event of his death, but I can't find out what killed him.
I'm also entitled to all of his worldly possessions upon his demise, so there is an upswing there. I can't wait for the day until that stack of Scientific American are mine and mine alone.
Not so. Those are hitting the Goodwill or the recycling bin. (Especially now that I found out I'm not married to you HIPPA-ly ever after.)
But in all actuality, there are some interesting bits that come out of those Scientific A-blah-blah-blah magazines. Usually, they surface when I'm trying to read something that's actually interesting and he's trying to regale me with theoretical gobbledy-gook. We're something of a matched set: I know about the good stuff and he mops up all of the rest.
Last night, however, the Scientific American proved that I'm not too much of an over-anxious, overly worried nitwit. (It's good to be assured of this occasionally.) The boy was reading (and then regaling me) about a study or op-ed or some such thing about the needless bits that average Americans worry about, i.e. carcinogens in food and other things that I can't now remember because I was maybe only half listening. And at the end of this list, the boy stopped and asked me "Are you worried about any of those?"
You feel like you really know someone and then you find out that they're not even positive about your deepest fears and about the things that keep your mind racing at night.
No, spouse. Those are not in my wheelhouse of things that drive me batty with worry. (I could easily match that list point by point and then some, though.)
I'm not a completely overly zealous worrier of inconsequential but socially popular non-issues. It's like I'm a less than average worrier. I don't have to be worried about my worrying. Three cheers for that.
Monday, February 22, 2016
The 6-year old knows things
The Elder decided to bring home a snotty nose and general headache-y-ness this weekend. This means that when she crawled into our bed at 6:18 Sunday morning and moaned about feeling garbage-y, I was all like "I'll make the sacrifice and stay home from church with you, which also means that I'll give up teaching Sunday School, which I love SOO SOO SOO much." Sometime, I'm going to talk about my new gig as a Sunday School teacher. (Someday when I can contain my sarcasm, that is.)
So the boy went to church all by his little self (he's a choir boy and usually cantors his little heart out), and the girls and I were all like "Comfy clothes! Sunshine! An extra mug of coffee! Sticker books!" And it turns out, that as soon as I said "stay at home," the Elder was thinking "ToDays to do list." Humor me cause I find this highly amusing. (This is verbatim, by the way, except for I don't know how to insert a check mark, so those are spelled out for you. Part of me wants to correct her 6-year-old-ness and portray her as a young prodigy, but let's get real here. She's six. That's why this is funnier. She also obviously gave this up fairly early in the morning. We nailed it throughout the day.)
Brades __[check mark]__ (She's figured out that she likes her hair braided, but only the front part. She hasn't realized that she's tapped out all of my hair styling talent in so doing.)
read __
Play __
fun with mommy __
color with mom __[check mark]__ (Okay, we never colored, but at one point, right when she gave up the list, she said "What should we do next? Let's color. And then the Younger pulled out a sticker book, and that was that.)
read Books from School __
snack __
rest __
Later when the boy came home from his faith-y stuff, the Elder excitedly exclaimed "Daddy! Mommy and I made corpse[s]!" She meant "crepes," but it also made me realize that when I'm disposing of evidence, I can't involve her in the process. She'll sing like a bird.
The boy was also gone all day Saturday at Science Fair bonanza 2016 (my title), so the girls and I actually had a lot of at-home-all-by-ourselves time throughout the weekend, and when that happens, the Elder likes to write notes to Daddy to inform him of the goings-on for when he gets home. This lead to "Dear Daddy: [hearts] I have BRADSE! Mommy Braded my hair. Love: Ally I love you [heart] Ally PS. wi are you going to science fair PS. again I chaged my Name it is Ally."
That's right. My kid changed her name. WHY? you might ask? Simple. Apparently, "Ally" is "easier" to write in cursive. And my kid thinks cursive is all that and a bag of cheese crackers.
And shortly after this realization, she started a list of "favorites," obviously to keep for posterity. First, we have the names that she would prefer over what is the perfectly acceptable option that we actually did name her:
Ally
Izzy
Mrista
Crista
Tangld
Ariel
Belle
(At this point, I'm so very glad that she has no naming rights, not even for pets. 'Cause if she did, then I'd be stuck with either a kid or a pet living at my house named "Mrista." Well, no.)
We also have favorite colors, favorite foods, favorite animals and, the best part, favorite I-don't-know-whats:
Book
coloring
food
fun
friends
mommy
Daddy
sun
sea
you
me
For the love of a 6-year old.
So the boy went to church all by his little self (he's a choir boy and usually cantors his little heart out), and the girls and I were all like "Comfy clothes! Sunshine! An extra mug of coffee! Sticker books!" And it turns out, that as soon as I said "stay at home," the Elder was thinking "ToDays to do list." Humor me cause I find this highly amusing. (This is verbatim, by the way, except for I don't know how to insert a check mark, so those are spelled out for you. Part of me wants to correct her 6-year-old-ness and portray her as a young prodigy, but let's get real here. She's six. That's why this is funnier. She also obviously gave this up fairly early in the morning. We nailed it throughout the day.)
read __
Play __
fun with mommy __
read Books from School __
snack __
rest __
Later when the boy came home from his faith-y stuff, the Elder excitedly exclaimed "Daddy! Mommy and I made corpse[s]!" She meant "crepes," but it also made me realize that when I'm disposing of evidence, I can't involve her in the process. She'll sing like a bird.
The boy was also gone all day Saturday at Science Fair bonanza 2016 (my title), so the girls and I actually had a lot of at-home-all-by-ourselves time throughout the weekend, and when that happens, the Elder likes to write notes to Daddy to inform him of the goings-on for when he gets home. This lead to "Dear Daddy: [hearts] I have BRADSE! Mommy Braded my hair. Love: Ally I love you [heart] Ally PS. wi are you going to science fair PS. again I chaged my Name it is Ally."
That's right. My kid changed her name. WHY? you might ask? Simple. Apparently, "Ally" is "easier" to write in cursive. And my kid thinks cursive is all that and a bag of cheese crackers.
And shortly after this realization, she started a list of "favorites," obviously to keep for posterity. First, we have the names that she would prefer over what is the perfectly acceptable option that we actually did name her:
Ally
Izzy
Mrista
Crista
Tangld
Ariel
Belle
(At this point, I'm so very glad that she has no naming rights, not even for pets. 'Cause if she did, then I'd be stuck with either a kid or a pet living at my house named "Mrista." Well, no.)
We also have favorite colors, favorite foods, favorite animals and, the best part, favorite I-don't-know-whats:
Book
coloring
food
fun
friends
mommy
Daddy
sun
sea
you
me
For the love of a 6-year old.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Wit and (a small bit of) wisdom
the Younger, as she goes through her nightly struggle of going to sleep: "Every night I dream about cereal and...just cereal."
I just wanted to include that. I'm on here grading away, and she is talking at us from her doorway. Sometimes I have a chance to record her in real time. It's all accuracy all the time, friends.
Essentially, it's been drudgery-doo and disappointment-ing around here. The Younger keeps it real, though. Like this morning, when we returned from our weekly library expedition ("Carry me!" begs the child..."My legs are tired of walking!" laments the child..."I'm carrying about 50 children's books and they ain't light as a feather" replies the pack mule) and the Younger went from throwing off shoes and coat to "Let's play Uno!" in about 1.8 seconds. At times like these, I need a few minutes to transition. I need a quiet moment or two. I need to not have to be engaged in an active conversation every waking second. I need a precious moment unloading my dishwasher!
The Younger did not agree.
This led to stomping to her room and some loud wailing.
Cruel injustices are not lost on a three-year old.
The ensuing silence was not lost on this thirty-three year old. The kid...she put herself down for a nap at 10:30 AM. As in Morning. And then she promptly took her day's nap.
Sometimes, life hands you an unexpected nap and you boot up the old computer on the double cause these rough drafts aren't grading themselves. And that's really where I'm heading with this. I've been a grading fiend for the last couple of weeks, and it's rendered me at any given moment in a horrid mood, a sarcastic mood, a groaning-and-gnashing-of-teeth mood, or a are-you-kidding? mood. I graded for 16 hours last week, Monday-Wednesday. And I taught 2 classes (another 7 hours) during that stretch. And this is all fit around my kids' schedules. I had some pretty touchy moments, I'm not too proud to admit.
And then because by the grace of schedulers go I, once I got one batch of drafts graded and returned, I had a quick breath and have been plugging away at the next round.
Regardless of when I shut down for the night, I make it a point of reading before bed (which is where I'm headed after this, so I'm typing fast fast fast so I can get there soon soon soon), and last week's book was about all sorts of things pertaining to recognizing and then accepting your life's calling. But two things that continue to percolate with me this week are
*I can't move forward if I continue to play the victim, and
*I have to let go of that which I cannot control.
Nothing cause for gasps of shock and awe here, but still. "Lord, I want to give it to you. If you want me to be here, show me. If you want me to go, lead me" has been my off-and-on prayer. I'm trying to be more intentional with this the moment my mind starts to turn Negative Nelly on me.
And I can't be the victim anymore. I mean, DRATS. It's such a deliciously yet horribly murky place to languish.
Right now you might be scoffing at me, pointing fingers at my earlier woe-is-me-ness. But, I did that on purpose. In part, yes, this is absolutely why I haven't blogged for a couple of weeks. Nuts to writing for myself after I spend hours advising others on writing. Yet I want to state right here that I don't want to be my own victim anymore. It's gotten old. Call me on it if/when you see me flounder.
I need and absolutely want some good mojo instead, and there's no space for that when woe-is-me is so loud and obnoxious.
To bookend, here's a conversation that happened last week in a big patch of sun, while I was doing some easier bits of work and the Younger was coloring in her Frozen coloring book and chattering away beside me.
"This is Elsa with her big head. She's gazing up at the sky." (She had drawn a stick figure, which did, in fact, have a big head.) Later, she was telling me a story by flipping through the pages of the coloring book. "...Now they're hearing a racket. Elsa was so annoyed...they couldn't play because they heard a racket. And after a while, it was finished. The end."
The end...indeed.
I just wanted to include that. I'm on here grading away, and she is talking at us from her doorway. Sometimes I have a chance to record her in real time. It's all accuracy all the time, friends.
Essentially, it's been drudgery-doo and disappointment-ing around here. The Younger keeps it real, though. Like this morning, when we returned from our weekly library expedition ("Carry me!" begs the child..."My legs are tired of walking!" laments the child..."I'm carrying about 50 children's books and they ain't light as a feather" replies the pack mule) and the Younger went from throwing off shoes and coat to "Let's play Uno!" in about 1.8 seconds. At times like these, I need a few minutes to transition. I need a quiet moment or two. I need to not have to be engaged in an active conversation every waking second. I need a precious moment unloading my dishwasher!
The Younger did not agree.
This led to stomping to her room and some loud wailing.
Cruel injustices are not lost on a three-year old.
The ensuing silence was not lost on this thirty-three year old. The kid...she put herself down for a nap at 10:30 AM. As in Morning. And then she promptly took her day's nap.
Sometimes, life hands you an unexpected nap and you boot up the old computer on the double cause these rough drafts aren't grading themselves. And that's really where I'm heading with this. I've been a grading fiend for the last couple of weeks, and it's rendered me at any given moment in a horrid mood, a sarcastic mood, a groaning-and-gnashing-of-teeth mood, or a are-you-kidding? mood. I graded for 16 hours last week, Monday-Wednesday. And I taught 2 classes (another 7 hours) during that stretch. And this is all fit around my kids' schedules. I had some pretty touchy moments, I'm not too proud to admit.
And then because by the grace of schedulers go I, once I got one batch of drafts graded and returned, I had a quick breath and have been plugging away at the next round.
Regardless of when I shut down for the night, I make it a point of reading before bed (which is where I'm headed after this, so I'm typing fast fast fast so I can get there soon soon soon), and last week's book was about all sorts of things pertaining to recognizing and then accepting your life's calling. But two things that continue to percolate with me this week are
*I can't move forward if I continue to play the victim, and
*I have to let go of that which I cannot control.
Nothing cause for gasps of shock and awe here, but still. "Lord, I want to give it to you. If you want me to be here, show me. If you want me to go, lead me" has been my off-and-on prayer. I'm trying to be more intentional with this the moment my mind starts to turn Negative Nelly on me.
And I can't be the victim anymore. I mean, DRATS. It's such a deliciously yet horribly murky place to languish.
Right now you might be scoffing at me, pointing fingers at my earlier woe-is-me-ness. But, I did that on purpose. In part, yes, this is absolutely why I haven't blogged for a couple of weeks. Nuts to writing for myself after I spend hours advising others on writing. Yet I want to state right here that I don't want to be my own victim anymore. It's gotten old. Call me on it if/when you see me flounder.
I need and absolutely want some good mojo instead, and there's no space for that when woe-is-me is so loud and obnoxious.
To bookend, here's a conversation that happened last week in a big patch of sun, while I was doing some easier bits of work and the Younger was coloring in her Frozen coloring book and chattering away beside me.
"This is Elsa with her big head. She's gazing up at the sky." (She had drawn a stick figure, which did, in fact, have a big head.) Later, she was telling me a story by flipping through the pages of the coloring book. "...Now they're hearing a racket. Elsa was so annoyed...they couldn't play because they heard a racket. And after a while, it was finished. The end."
The end...indeed.
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