Ahem. As I was saying.
Things I Don’t Feel Good At Right Now:
- Blogging. And, by extension, Writing. Because I just accidentally PUBLISHED an entry before I was finished. (I meant to PREVIEW it.) Also, because I didn’t have Internet connection for five days. (Oh, you’ve never met a blogger and computer programmer who don’t have CONNECTION TO THE INTERNET? Well, you have now.) Also, because I feel like I have nothing to say. I’m so damn honest all the time that when people ask me, “How are you?” I just stare at them, or don’t return the call, or don’t reply to the text, because I assume they don’t really want to know. And, by extension, I assume readers of a blog don’t really want to know. Which leads to #2…
- Being a Good Friend. Because I’m not returning calls and texts or making a very strong effort at conversation in general. Because so many people have helped us during this move—taking our kids, cooking us food, carrying our boxes—and I don’t have it in me to reciprocate the help, yet. My pride lets me ask for help only so many times before I feel it must be reciprocated.
- Being Healthy. Because I’m supposed to be a runner, but I’m not running. Because I’m supposed to practice meditation, but my cushion is being used as a perch for all the books in the Pinkalicious series. Because I’m supposed to be an advocate for Food Matters but I’m eating far too many pizzas and burritos for this to be reality.
- Being a Good Domestic Partner. Because I snap at Chris when he asks me where the tape is. Because I tell him I’m too tired to make dinner after he has worked all day at a stressful job. And because…(trying to balance my enthusiasm for honest writing with respect for his privacy…) let’s just say, right now, I’m not very energetic in the sack.
- Being a Good-Enough Mom. Because there is not one single member of this household I didn’t yell at yesterday. Because I promised to bring cupcakes to school for the boys’ birthday last week and forgot. Because, even though I am a 32-year-old woman with a graduate degree who has planned for and executed the instruction of at least a dozen college classrooms, I find myself in the driveway, wrestling a two-year-old wearing nothing but a pink cape to “PLEASE!!! AT LEAST PUT ON SOME UNDIES! YOU DON’T HAVE TO WEAR A SHIRT OR PANTS OR EVEN SHOES! BUT AT LEAST PUT ON UNDIES!!! WE HAVE TO GO TO BED, BATH, AND BEYOND TO GET A POTHOLDER BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHERE OURS ARE AND I KEEP BURNING MY HANDS USING BUNCHED-UP DISH TOWELS TO GET ALL THESE PIZZAS OUT OF THE OVEN!!!!”
I realize all of this—the negative thoughts, the irritability, the cutting off of communication—-are signs of depression. Is that what’s happening? Is the darkness at a distance looming in? Time will tell. Right now, I’m pointing to the image of the closet, hoping that the current chaos has hit its peak and calm is on the horizon.
And, if anyone is wondering about the birthday celebration, Chris’s sister, who is a better baker than I, was here to visit the week before we moved. While I was freaking out, she was in the kitchen and, other than having to substitute tea lights for birthday candles, I’d say the boys got a good, if chaotic, 7th celebration. They got strawberry cake, some new Legos, and a chance to watch their favorite basketball team play in the national championship game.