Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Well, it means absolutely shit when your son can't read. It means nothing when your tween tells you that you're never around. It means absolutely nothing when you can't find the lost library books. It means diddly squat when it's February and you're using strings of Christmas lights as an extension cord for your laptop.
I'm tapped out. I feel like a deflated teat with nothing else to offer, and the ones who need the most support have gotten the shaft.
But at what cost?
My son's teacher has no tolerance for him. "He's failing," she told me. "He shouldn't be in this class." The words stung. I wanted to scream and cry, but I didn't think that I was capable of doing anything about his situation. Do we let our children suffer through classes that they despise and say, "welcome to the real world, kid," or do we take them out of places that make them pouty and then slather them with personal accolades for flushing the toilet after twosies and then celebrate with cake?
This is where I found myself today--a day where I had far more insipid blogs to write.
Instead of going and taking on more community volunteer services, I cleaned my home, hoping that some semblance of order would right the wrongs I've done in the last two-and-a-half years of service. I looked at myself and wondered where the hell this social paranoia came from. Does the sweat for my community even matter when my future is not even twitching an eye on the couch in front of the computer?
"I just need a hug, Mom."
My daughter, writhing in her own hyper-hormonal skin looked up at me for help, maybe hope, or relief from the crazy dancing the Watusi through her veins.
My children have had it rough in the last two years. Their mother has tried to find distraction from a painful divorce by creating a web of support in the community. Social nesting, maybe. They lost their family units in the breakup and then they lost their mother to social obligations.
We hugged tonight. All of us hugged. We made corn dogs and toast for dinner. We did homework. Somewhere between spelling the word "again" and "there" (both spelled with a "q," mind you) I came home. I found my feet under my body and wrangled my personal fears of dealing with my divorce. Homework has a new meaning.
I cancelled all of my social obligations (save one last one coming up) and felt our family gel and hold. "The world can wait," a friend told me. She was so right.
So scoff or do what you will. I'm okay with that. I don't need any validation in this endeavor. But sometimes begin a grownup means saying "no" to all of those things that validate your self and saying "yes" to those things that fart on your lap.