I owe you a few words.
I left a shitstain on this blog a mile long when I published that last post. I freaked people out, fearing I was about to stick my head in an oven or something, and that’s uncalled for. I don’t like it when people do that, and I’m sorry that I did.
In reality, I’m just tired. It’s the kind of tired that isn’t cured by sleeping. It’s a kind of tired that is ALMOST first trimester pregnancy tired, but not as rewarding. It’s a tired that saps everything inside, leaving me with little else except recognition of The Tired. It sucks me of my humor, my joy, my hope. It’s a fucking annoying Tired.
It’s a Single Parent Tired. Again (and always!), I tip my hat to single parents, because DAYUM.
I had The Ugly Cry this weekend. You know the one. The Ugly Cry that forces you to look akin to Julia Roberts while having a diabetic episode in Steel Magnolias.
“Honey, it’ll be okay,” Bryan said.
“DON’T TALK ABOUT ME LIKE I’M NOT EVEN HERE!” I’d snap, wishing M’Lynn would give me some orange juice already.
This week is better, already. I’ve got lunches with some of my favorite peeps scheduled. I’ve got tons of work to keep me busy, and it’s the creative, lucrative kind of work that I enjoy. (Cleaning houses, while profitable, does not make my Favorite Things To Do For Fun list.) Aside from Beau bringing in a LIMB FROM A FREAKIN’ TREE and then SHREDDING IT LIKE A WOOD CHIPPER IN MY LIVING ROOM last night, the house is relatively clean. I washed our sheets and deoderized our house. In short, I offered to myself what others pay me to do. And? I did it for free, because I am my best pimp.
We had Jack this past weekend, which is both easier and harder, but there were moments that were pure joy. When the stars align and the moon is in the seventh house, everyone’s in a good mood and there is squealing and laughter in every crevice of the house. The other part of the time, there is a fight for dominance over the remote control and our attention.
The way to fend this off is by centering all family time in the gallery kitchen, where both boys were keenly aware that they were being immortalized on video and receiving our full attention. It was like Christmas.
THIS WENT ON FOR HOURS.
And, admittedly, it’s pretty hard to hate your life when you can’t hear yourself kvetch for all the laughter and squealing of joy.
That, and a few Advil, will make you a pretty happy camper.