I spend most of my days full time parenting the girls, driving them to and fro, making pile after pile of food, and freeing random objects from hair tangles all while the snarkiest "NO" ever gets practiced repeatedly in my general direction. In other words: nothing new there.
In the evenings, I drive to the theatre, hand the kids over to the Mister and then settle in to work for several hours. I discover that I cannot do simple math. I discover that counting stacks of money is deeply vexing and often confuses me. I get frustrated because I used to be so good at all this stuff and now I feel lucky if I'm holding on to the table when it takes off without me.
It was one week into the new job when I got sick. Like, stupid sick. Last Wednesday night was the first night we served from the new pub and by midnight that evening, I could no longer breathe, felt like kittens had crawled into my mouth and we're scratching the hell out of my throat, had feet that weighed a million pounds (each), had a racking pain in my chest and thought I was going to die. So I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed and that made it infinitely worse. So I sobbed some more. By the time I made it into my bedroom I was certain I'd never make it into my bed, which made me (wait for it) sob some more. Mark, who had been sleeping peacefully waaaaay up there in our bed in the sky, had to come down and rescue me. He stroked my snot stained hand, got me some medicine (and a tissue), and tried to get me to stop focusing on EVERYTHING THAT WAS WRONG WITH THE WORLD. I've since dubbed it, "The Night of Despair."
I'm feeling much better now.
But I'm still a bit of an emotional wreak. Lily is having a really hard time adjusting to first grade. She's in a multi-age class with two teachers and 40 kids and it's simply too much for her little self to adjust to all at once. Couple that with her deep desire to sit in a corner and draw, which isn't what first grade is all about, and you have a very clingy, sad, heart breaking child who would rather not go to school. She is making progress (it's only been six class days) and I do believe she will adjust, but all I can think is that I have ruined her life by making her go to school. "What's wrong with me," my inner voice yells, "that I cannot simply be the kind of mama who can happily homeschool and provide my child with everything she needs?" My inner voice is very judgmental.
Which brings me to the very dramatic title you see above this post: "how the universe kicked my ass, then punched me in the face." The universe is actually being very kind. After all, all that's wrong in my world is that I am working too much, feeling over whelmed, stressing out about my kid, and still sick (though getting better). It could be so much worse. And yet, when I sit down to write, all I can feel is this sense of defeat. This job of mine is necessary for so many reasons and yet, I know it's kicking my ass. I feel like a little girl who has been asked to hold a wild tiger while simultaneously on deadline to knit a king sized comforter for a child who is slowly freezing to death. Madness.
And yet, I know I can get a handle on this. I am obsessive about organization when I'm working and I know that if I can simply get my rhythm and procedures to fall into line, I can do this job with my eyes shut (though peaking, I'm not an idiot). But it's that juggle while I figure it all out that is threatening to squish me. It's like I'm drowning within five feet of shore. People win Darwin awards for that kind of thing.
I don't know what else I want to say here, only that my silence is not an indication that nothing is happening in our lives. No. Too much is happening and I have nary a moment to contemplate my navel, much less sit and work out my crap on this here blog. It's after midnight and I should be sleeping. So I will say goodnight and sometime in the next three to five days, I may even get to read your comments. Take your time if you want. I'll never know the difference...