As I write this post, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, a hot cup of coffee my ever present companion. After emailing my local school district with my son’s homeschool evaluation for the year, we walk to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for dinner. I’ve already logged 3,500 steps on my Fitbit and it’s just past noon. The smell of dinner is wafting from the crockpot, Italian beef, and it’s divine. I’m expecting to finish this post in a couple of hours, which will make four completed and scheduled posts before I’ve even published the blog. Did I mention it’s Monday today?
It would appear things are going pretty damn well for me today, eh? In the closeup view, yes, life is swell. I’ve got coffee, that’s never bad. You can see my power is on and I have a little time in my day to write. When you widen the lens on things, though, it’s kind of a hot mess.
The reality of my morning is a bit more hectic than I initially led you to believe. Last night we had a tornado warning and at quarter to two in the morning I was throwing stuff out of our downstairs closet (a.k.a. our “safe room”) so that we could scramble inside and take cover. The only problem was that, even after I took a bunch of crap out, there was still too much crap in there for all of us to fit. We ended up throwing a few pillows in there, along with our son, while my husband and I sat, hunched over, underneath the table all the crap was piled on. After about 20 minutes the tornado warning was called off and we headed back to bed, most of us too amped up to sleep. We all looked as though we were auditioning for roles as zombie extras just a few hours later when it was time to get up and going.
When my husband went to work, dressed in wrinkled clothes dug out of a suitcase brought back from last week’s business trip, I headed straight for the Keurig while my son played video games. The email I sent this morning was to clear up the last one I sent and screwed up. Our walk to the store came out of desperation because I forgot to pick up beef broth last night and we were both so tired I hoped it would wake us up. It didn’t. That delayed my putting dinner in the slow cooker, which doesn’t smell divine because I just put it in. Dinner might be ready around bedtime.
The coffee was good, that I can’t deny, but the coffee was lunch. I did manage to scrounge up some celery and peanut butter, but when the celery ran out I just used my tongue to scoop up what was left of the peanut butter. I honestly don’t know how I got so many steps on my Fitbit. I think it’s because I talk with my hands a lot. I must have been Italian in a former life. And, yes, this will be my fourth post I’ve written in a few weeks, but I’m certain my crippling doubt will prevent me from publishing all of them. You see, my house is a mess, both literally and figuratively.
I see so many pretty things in the world around me, some seemingly unattainable things. I see gorgeous photos of flaxen haired ladies with porcelain skin and flawless outfits, filtered to within an inch of their lives. I read tall tales of healthy, organic afternoon snacks eaten by children that don’t cry when they have to do math. I hear you telling me everything is great while I watch you force your lips to grin over clenched teeth. And, I have to tell you I am just as guilty as anyone.
I spent a lot of the time I was ill assuring everyone around me how strong and capable I was. My humor hid an abundance of fear and sadness. I never wanted anyone to think I couldn’t do it. Do what, exactly? No one was expecting me to be anything other than the fallible human I am. Looking back, my desire to appear strong seems so silly. While exhausted and sick, I decided to play a role that made me more exhausted and made me sick on a whole ‘nother level.
So, don’t clean your house for me. Let me see your dust bunnies. I promise you, I have plenty of my own to show you. I want to see all of you, mostly because it’s the quickest way for me to tell if you’re a creep and I should avoid you, but also because you might be cool and maybe we could hang out. More than anything, though, I want to see you because I want you to see me. I fought hard to be on my own two feet again and I don’t want to spend the rest of my years being anything other than who I really am. You being who you really are is one of the ways I get there.
*Featured image courtesy of Pixabay.