a different kind
"Stop singing," I said, "it makes me fall in love with you." You, however, just smile and play on. So does that make it okay?
---
I weep for my lack of camera Sunday night. Playgrounds = the greatest places on the planet. Especially with a couple of the coolest people ever. Seriously, I need not say more...it's all in my head.
But playgrounds/parks/swings will be my hangout this summer fo' sho'.
---
I force myself off to "class" every morning for only a couple of reasons anymore, and I guess not a one of them could be called "academic". Duh.
(I'm going to make a list of people who MUST sign my yearbook.)
---
I'm scared! For now I'll just focus on one reason, first saying that I don't feel scared very often, so that's...scary...
So. My back hurts (more than usual) after a day on my feet at work (five or eight hours depending on the day). Sundays are the most..."ugh"...because, after six hours, I sweep the store (big broom, then small broom for corners) and then mop the store. I got scared while I was mopping yesterday. It was me thinking too much: I actually really sweeping and mopping. It's quiet, I'm not dealing with anyone (left to my own analytical thoughts; that's my favorite), no one tells me how to clean up (because they don't want to do it period)...peaceful is a good word (which is, I think, why Jessica and I sometimes don't mind doing dishes by hand too). But I can't do this every week. I like doing it, I'm the only one who does, and yet there Karen sits making a cleaning schedule because pushing a freaking mop around and dumping a bucket hurts my back too much to do so every week. I feel like a cop-out. Gah and I crings at the thought of needing special provisions. People might think less of me for needing them. Like I'm letting someone down or just plain messing things up. I mean in general too. I mean all of the time. Mop mop mop. So what are some goals in my life? I definitely want to be a mom, and I'll also probably want a clean house without hiring out what I see as my own duties as a mother. But just this hour-and-a-half of sweeping and mopping and this mess of standing around a lot "kills" me. So...what if I can't? (Scared now.)
What if I need physical assistance (and special provisions! no!) to be "with child", to hold my child, to chase my child, to scoop them up quickly into my arms, to pick up baby-sized mountains of toys only to repeat the process the necxt day, to sweep the crumb-laden floor after every meal and snack, to stoop and break up arguments or teach them each to share, to vacuum the carpet twelve times, to clean up fifty spills a day, to wash and carry laundry ad infinitum, (to wash and carry and change and feed and dress babies ad infinitum), to scrub the toilet, to move more than I ever did...? I know myself. I know that all of these things (including but not limited to, of course) will cause back pain when they should not in amounts that they should not, and I also know that I will wince when no one is looking, refuse to become addicted to some damaging pain prescription, pick up my 8-year-old anyway, and cry alone or perhaps to my husband. And every second every moment every twinge of pain or stiffness in my young or old body will remind me of Friday, February 13th, 2004, and how before that I imagined that one might be somehow able to brace oneslf in preparation for the impact of a car wreck. What will I do?? I'll fall apart!!
And that's only considering my family plans. I could very well fall apart long before then, what with the long plane rides and jungle treks and nights spend sleeping on dirt or stiff cots with no room in my bag for an orthopedic back pillow, all of the babies I'll hopefully hold before my own. I don't care about all of the million-dollar "successes" I could or can pursue because, by this world's standards, I'd much rather be a "failure". The successes I plan to pursue (MUST pursue) will make me hurt, and it's the thought that one such moment over which I had zero control has the power to hold me back in any way -- even if it's as "simple" as invading my thoughts or diverting my attention from parts of my life on which I SHOULD be focusing -- THAT scares me. But I know that scared is wrong. Scared is unnecessary and wasted, because that's only a further distraction. Not even the birds worry about where they will find their next meal, and God provides for them. God has always held me so tight, I'm sure He'll be my back pillow. I'm sure He'll hold me upright, and I'm sure He'll make my kids a little lighter when they cry from their beds at night...if I ask (I will). I just hope I can always believe it, even when I'm scared.
---
I weep for my lack of camera Sunday night. Playgrounds = the greatest places on the planet. Especially with a couple of the coolest people ever. Seriously, I need not say more...it's all in my head.
But playgrounds/parks/swings will be my hangout this summer fo' sho'.
---
I force myself off to "class" every morning for only a couple of reasons anymore, and I guess not a one of them could be called "academic". Duh.
(I'm going to make a list of people who MUST sign my yearbook.)
---
I'm scared! For now I'll just focus on one reason, first saying that I don't feel scared very often, so that's...scary...
So. My back hurts (more than usual) after a day on my feet at work (five or eight hours depending on the day). Sundays are the most..."ugh"...because, after six hours, I sweep the store (big broom, then small broom for corners) and then mop the store. I got scared while I was mopping yesterday. It was me thinking too much: I actually really sweeping and mopping. It's quiet, I'm not dealing with anyone (left to my own analytical thoughts; that's my favorite), no one tells me how to clean up (because they don't want to do it period)...peaceful is a good word (which is, I think, why Jessica and I sometimes don't mind doing dishes by hand too). But I can't do this every week. I like doing it, I'm the only one who does, and yet there Karen sits making a cleaning schedule because pushing a freaking mop around and dumping a bucket hurts my back too much to do so every week. I feel like a cop-out. Gah and I crings at the thought of needing special provisions. People might think less of me for needing them. Like I'm letting someone down or just plain messing things up. I mean in general too. I mean all of the time. Mop mop mop. So what are some goals in my life? I definitely want to be a mom, and I'll also probably want a clean house without hiring out what I see as my own duties as a mother. But just this hour-and-a-half of sweeping and mopping and this mess of standing around a lot "kills" me. So...what if I can't? (Scared now.)
What if I need physical assistance (and special provisions! no!) to be "with child", to hold my child, to chase my child, to scoop them up quickly into my arms, to pick up baby-sized mountains of toys only to repeat the process the necxt day, to sweep the crumb-laden floor after every meal and snack, to stoop and break up arguments or teach them each to share, to vacuum the carpet twelve times, to clean up fifty spills a day, to wash and carry laundry ad infinitum, (to wash and carry and change and feed and dress babies ad infinitum), to scrub the toilet, to move more than I ever did...? I know myself. I know that all of these things (including but not limited to, of course) will cause back pain when they should not in amounts that they should not, and I also know that I will wince when no one is looking, refuse to become addicted to some damaging pain prescription, pick up my 8-year-old anyway, and cry alone or perhaps to my husband. And every second every moment every twinge of pain or stiffness in my young or old body will remind me of Friday, February 13th, 2004, and how before that I imagined that one might be somehow able to brace oneslf in preparation for the impact of a car wreck. What will I do?? I'll fall apart!!
And that's only considering my family plans. I could very well fall apart long before then, what with the long plane rides and jungle treks and nights spend sleeping on dirt or stiff cots with no room in my bag for an orthopedic back pillow, all of the babies I'll hopefully hold before my own. I don't care about all of the million-dollar "successes" I could or can pursue because, by this world's standards, I'd much rather be a "failure". The successes I plan to pursue (MUST pursue) will make me hurt, and it's the thought that one such moment over which I had zero control has the power to hold me back in any way -- even if it's as "simple" as invading my thoughts or diverting my attention from parts of my life on which I SHOULD be focusing -- THAT scares me. But I know that scared is wrong. Scared is unnecessary and wasted, because that's only a further distraction. Not even the birds worry about where they will find their next meal, and God provides for them. God has always held me so tight, I'm sure He'll be my back pillow. I'm sure He'll hold me upright, and I'm sure He'll make my kids a little lighter when they cry from their beds at night...if I ask (I will). I just hope I can always believe it, even when I'm scared.