Peeps, I am in a trench. You know how I get. My 2014 Happiness Project has taken a direct hit, and me and all the metaphorical paperwork are flailing about in our own little wind tunnel. My eyes have swollen up from crying. I think I might look rabid.
IT’S TOO MUCH, IT’S TOO MUCH, I keep wanting to scream. Instead, I just whine the words to Hot Firefighter Husband, who strokes my hair and lets me snuggle with him while he lays on the couch recovering from dropping a 45-lb weighted bar on his foot.
Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s unfixable. We’re moving into our newly remodeled home this weekend! Isn’t that exciting? Currently the house has no appliances, no electricity, no A/C unit, no countertops, and no doorknobs. But we’re moving in this weekend! Isn’t that exciting? Okay, hold on. Stand by while this tiny little anxiety attack passes by. In a more positive development, I put Husband in charge of ordering a new king-sized mattress for us. It arrived yesterday in a 2 X 6 box. #magiccarpet?
I’ve told you this before – how when I’m stressed, every little problem/issue/task flies at me in the form of an arrow and stabs me in the head. When I pull out an arrow, another one takes its place. I imagine myself as a walking zombie with a zillion arrows sticking out of my skull. I make poor choices. I do anything I can to divert my attention from the fact that I should be pulling arrows out of my head.
And did I mention it’s spring break week? The kids are off school, so they can really help me with the move and all. HILARE! Although the little Tyrant yesterday decided to teach herself to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and she did, and I nearly wept with love for her.Well, I did weep. But more in a general sort of way.
I’m not a stellar mother right now. EVIDENCE: the Diva ate a can of corn for dinner last night, and the Pterodactyl ate a pound of bologna. I’m not a great wife right now. EVIDENCE: Husband winces in pain every time he puts weight on his foot, and all I can think about is when he’ll be able to carry a box. I’m faltering in my role as Chief Domestic Engineer. EVIDENCE: Well. How important is clean underwear, anyway?
Most importantly, I’m failing in my role as caretaker of my spirit. I’m not reading or thinking or meditating or even pondering the jaw-dropping sunrises we see each morning from the deck of the Dilapidated Beach House.
Instead, I’m exercising. Every day. Hard. It’s the only task that’s finite and completable, the one thing I’m doing well right now. I lift and swing and run and punch, and pull out that one arrow. DONE.
At night when I’m drifting off to sleep, I run a mental tab of all I didn’t accomplish. Didn’t order the new mattresses. Didn’t pick out paint color for the bathroom. Didn’t get my glasses fixed. Didn’t solve the countertop dispute with Home Depot. Didn’t arrange the boy’s playdate. Didn’t sign the Diva up for camp. Didn’t give the dogs their heartworm prevention meds. Didn’t call my mother-in-law on her 77th birthday. Didn’t return my sister-in-law’s email.
The list of DIDN’Ts makes my stomach tighten, and I feel my muscles constrict, trying hard to digest the enormous burden I ask them to carry, and I put my hands on my semi-ripped abs. Part of me is strong, I think. Part of me is very, very strong.