I want, I want, I want...
but what, exactly?
Too many things, and all at once.
I just started building a professional blog, then found out one of my boys might be leaving. He has special needs, and a team of therapists, and a meeting coming up where it will be decided if his home-based therapies should be delivered in a center-based setting instead. So the professional blog, detailing our adventures in early childhood education, is on the back burner while we wait to find out if the group we've pieced together since September will remain intact or move in some other direction.
In November I interviewed for an evening gig teaching fitness classes at the new facility my gym is opening near my house. I got the job, and I'm so excited to start planning and practicing for my new classes! But they're building the facility and the opening date is frustratingly soft. The Director of Wellness says she'll send me a schedule with the days, times, and names of the classes I'll be teaching, but it hasn't shown up in my inbox. I wait, and keep doing the yoga I've been doing, even though I sometimes feel tensed up like a runner at the start of a race, waiting for that starting shot, hearing nothing but silence while my muscles itch with impatience.
Our house is closer to whatever complete might be than it's ever been, and still, complete recedes ever further into the distance, and lists of tasks amass faster than a toddler can trash a toy shelf. I do more in the house than I've ever done, which can be satisfying, when you first see tangible results. But, dudes, the sheer. amount. of. work. The cleaning lady came once, but until the checks from the evening gig start rolling in, I'm on my own again. I alternate between fierce drive and bouts of despair.
My husband's been working 11 hour days at his new job. Then there's cooking, and eating, and cleaning, and bedtimes, and then we're both exhausted, but still driven to do more, more, more. Because we want things. We want a better curriculum, or a deadline met. We want home-cooked meals, and a balanced budget, and the old clothes bagged up for charity. We want the junk off the mantle, and the kitchen set we built for Christmas shellacked, my roots dyed, and his hair buzzed short, and neat enough for work. We want the socks with holes thrown away so they stop taking up space in the drawers, and the basement reorganized, and all the paperwork in the basket filed. We want the fucking snowblower fixed already.
I interrupted the writing of this blog post to go buy a sewing machine. I asked my husband: if I sent his mom a few pairs of cutout fabric for yoga pants in the mail, did he think she would sew them for me? I need them for my new job, and the discount store where I used to buy them closed, and I think I could make them cheaper than I can buy them. He reminded me of the cost of shipping and told me to buy a sewing machine instead. I logged onto craigslist, and you can't get one of those suckers used for under $50. But while I was writing, a $25 machine popped up in an adjacent tab when I hopped over and refreshed. I texted her; she texted me; the next thing you know my boy and I are zipping a few miles down the road, and she gives it to me for $20 because she doesn't have change.
Am I a seamstress? A homemaker? A maid or a mother or a teacher or a yogi? A child of God?
Where the hell am I supposed to put this sewing machine?
I just want a tiny peek into the future. Everything -everything- is asking me for baby steps, and I just want to know which direction to go in.
The answer, though -and the real rub is that I've chosen this answer- is: all of them. baby steps.
That may be the answer.
But it doesn't make it any less obnoxious.
but what, exactly?
Too many things, and all at once.
I just started building a professional blog, then found out one of my boys might be leaving. He has special needs, and a team of therapists, and a meeting coming up where it will be decided if his home-based therapies should be delivered in a center-based setting instead. So the professional blog, detailing our adventures in early childhood education, is on the back burner while we wait to find out if the group we've pieced together since September will remain intact or move in some other direction.
In November I interviewed for an evening gig teaching fitness classes at the new facility my gym is opening near my house. I got the job, and I'm so excited to start planning and practicing for my new classes! But they're building the facility and the opening date is frustratingly soft. The Director of Wellness says she'll send me a schedule with the days, times, and names of the classes I'll be teaching, but it hasn't shown up in my inbox. I wait, and keep doing the yoga I've been doing, even though I sometimes feel tensed up like a runner at the start of a race, waiting for that starting shot, hearing nothing but silence while my muscles itch with impatience.
Our house is closer to whatever complete might be than it's ever been, and still, complete recedes ever further into the distance, and lists of tasks amass faster than a toddler can trash a toy shelf. I do more in the house than I've ever done, which can be satisfying, when you first see tangible results. But, dudes, the sheer. amount. of. work. The cleaning lady came once, but until the checks from the evening gig start rolling in, I'm on my own again. I alternate between fierce drive and bouts of despair.
My husband's been working 11 hour days at his new job. Then there's cooking, and eating, and cleaning, and bedtimes, and then we're both exhausted, but still driven to do more, more, more. Because we want things. We want a better curriculum, or a deadline met. We want home-cooked meals, and a balanced budget, and the old clothes bagged up for charity. We want the junk off the mantle, and the kitchen set we built for Christmas shellacked, my roots dyed, and his hair buzzed short, and neat enough for work. We want the socks with holes thrown away so they stop taking up space in the drawers, and the basement reorganized, and all the paperwork in the basket filed. We want the fucking snowblower fixed already.
I interrupted the writing of this blog post to go buy a sewing machine. I asked my husband: if I sent his mom a few pairs of cutout fabric for yoga pants in the mail, did he think she would sew them for me? I need them for my new job, and the discount store where I used to buy them closed, and I think I could make them cheaper than I can buy them. He reminded me of the cost of shipping and told me to buy a sewing machine instead. I logged onto craigslist, and you can't get one of those suckers used for under $50. But while I was writing, a $25 machine popped up in an adjacent tab when I hopped over and refreshed. I texted her; she texted me; the next thing you know my boy and I are zipping a few miles down the road, and she gives it to me for $20 because she doesn't have change.
Am I a seamstress? A homemaker? A maid or a mother or a teacher or a yogi? A child of God?
Where the hell am I supposed to put this sewing machine?
I just want a tiny peek into the future. Everything -everything- is asking me for baby steps, and I just want to know which direction to go in.
The answer, though -and the real rub is that I've chosen this answer- is: all of them. baby steps.
That may be the answer.
But it doesn't make it any less obnoxious.
No comments:
Post a Comment