I'm comparing. I'm feeling as though I should be somewhere - anywhere other than exactly where I am. I grow so tired of the same view and frankly, get stuck in not knowing how to change it. It's easy only in rhetoric - or just plain denial. Or the frustration is what keeps me stuck on those dauntingly crappy days.
There's a sort of obsession and habit of drinking carrot juice in my house. My son loves it. It's his go to. Better than other sugary juices, I suppose and he's trained me well to have it in stock at the Blanco diner at all times. He's 3 1/2. I'm either a good obeyer disguised as an avoider of meltdowns, or he's a good drill sergeant or both. We take turns. At least the dysfunction is balanced, ok?
My son spilled a jar of said carrot juice. A jar? Yup. The southern in me, I suppose. An overpriced pre-made magic potion juice glass bottle that I kept and reuse. I have a few. I liked the unique shape. He loves it and it reminds me of home for whatever reason. Southerners drink out of objects not intended to be glassware; it stuck. I also try to live a sustainable lifestyle and reuse as much as I can, so there you go. Me in a nutshell. (I wish. Just go with it for now)
He spilled the carrot juice in a hurry to follow me downstairs while i went to check the mail. He has this fear of me leaving him lately, which is another post; another worry for me.
I ran to the spill in that 'I'm so frazzled, I can't believe the world is against me, what else could possibly happen to me' overblown and very honest frustration. I consoled him at the same time. I'm good at that. Talk about mixed signals. Mama's frustrated. I know it was an accident. My body language couldn't hold back as gracefully. Back and forth between the kitchen sink and the relatively new grey and white chevron rug. Slowly the stain would lift. Another trip. Another towel. I cursed and he repeated. 'Sh*t.'
'Sh*t', he repeated.
No sweets. Don't say that. I kept soaking up bright orange juice. Not what I had on the agenda. Not today. It was a day of fire drills. Of getting it solved as fast as you can and it's still not good enough's. Of crossing one off the list and five more appeared. Of not enoughs. Of what I do wasn't nearly a comparable measure next to what I need to be doing.
'Aw sh*t'. I was done.
'Aw sh*t'. I was done.
I crouched over the pastel orange hue and cried. I couldn't do it anymore. The bath water was running. So was the clock to get the stain out before the tub filled up. I'm a pro double tasker and I frankly hate that I put myself in those pressure cooker situations. All by myself.
I can't keep it up anymore. The juggle is incredibly daunting. And you know, it's not just the juggling of so many topics and things to remember and things to schedule and do and keep up with what he needs and what I need. It's not so much to keep going with the packing a lunch or the school papers or the work emails and meetings and calls and bills and home keeping and groceries and activities and when am I going to work out this week (I was a regular) and how would anyone ever have the patience to participate in my world and the something's gotta give, and the no family this side of the country, and, and, and...
It's the what happens if I stop juggling? It'll all crumble. It'll fall apart. It's the marathoner worried their legs will give out.
What if I give out? I can't ever give out. Ever.
It was carrot juice. It was one more thing and I folded.
We'll see if the rug matches tomorrow's sunrise. And I did catch the bath water just in time. And we had a lovely night of brushing teeth, lotion, combing hair, pj's, books, and cuddles as he fell asleep- my nightly prayer of gratitude. For him. For our life. For surviving and most days, thriving in it.
Maybe in my own haste, in my own 'don't leave me' moment, I spill more energy than when I savor the moment and take my time. We all have tantrums. We need to. We all have those 'I can't do this alone', moments. I get how those little bodies and minds grow so fast and have so many meltdowns. It's a lot to absorb in one capsule. Give some away. Let it out. You can't tread lightly and cover ground with a heavy load. Put it down. Throw it.
Curse. A lot. I do. (other than spontaneous one-liners - not in front of my child - my inner dialogue is rough) and alone in the car. I love it. I'm Puerto Rican. I need to get it out. Sweat it out. Be alive.
And move on. So will the carrot juice stain. So will your anxiety. So will all the BS and what filters through is the clarity of what matters.