I'm sick of autumn's somber colors. These are my antidotes. You know where to get them.
My middle girl has had a bad couple of day, pain wise. I'm hoping it's hormonal and goes away in a few days.
I'm feeling nearly (note the disclaimer nearly) overwhelmed by responsibility right now. There's no antidote for that. Just gotta muddle on through, boogie on down. But I'm not liking it, by golly.
As I begin to think about who I will be one day when my identity isn't defined by the needs of my kids, I think more and more of how to write about my life without the specifics of the kids. I want to try to distill the specifics into my experience of them separate of the kids themselves.
Suppose one of the kids came to me and confessed they told a lie. I don't want to say "Kid X told a lie and I handled it this way and felt this way about it". Instead, I want to think in terms of what a lie means to me and how I process feeling betrayed.
I don't know, though. That sounds so pretentious. But sooner or later, these kids are all going to have lives of their own that don't require me to be there for them twenty-four hours a day. It seems important to develop a sense of self separate from them. But can a mother's sense of self ever really be separated from her children? Maybe it's so integral a part of us that the best separation we can for is to start a lemonade stand or something when they've all moved out.
Maybe this is menopause? Maybe it's just existential masturbation. Maybe I should turn off the computer.
