Sitting on go

I am unacquainted with standing by.


Since I have finished school, I've found myself at kind of a loss. For…well, anything.

I sit at home and listen to the alternate fighting and love of my children. I think of all the things I should be doing – laundry, writing, reading, cleaning. Making things to hang on the walls since they are all presently blank. Also, there is a strange conglomeration of 8-9 nails on the wall above my couch and I spend more time than I care to admit sitting and wondering what could have possibly ever hung there.


I've thought about grad school. But…what? What could I do? I'm thirty four damn years old and really I have no more idea of what I want to be when I grow up than I did when I was nine.

I thought about teaching. Praxis testing is expensive. And what happens if I do all that work and find myself in front of however many kids…and then I hate it?

Problem is, I got used to school. I got used to being occupied. I also have the fortune/misfortune of being married to a man who is always on the go, so many nights the kids and I find ourselves at home, existing through the night. I don't mind it, though. I have time to watch King of the Hill, talk about movies and games with Max, play 4,000 games of various substance with Lucy, or decipher Pretty Little Liars with Ava.

Then I think about what I'd want to do, given the chance.

I'd be creative, I'd have a different outlook on every day. I'd solve and make and do and be.

Or I'd be Beyoncé.


Enough. Enough with the thoughts.



Basically, people, I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through the past month.




Even yesterday, when I had plenty of work to do at, you know, actual work – I stayed home with a whiny toddler and firepee thanks to being female and having, apparently, a short urethra. *bows to the TMI audience*

So I could have done schoolwork, right? The geneaology paper that is due today. Or the research paper that is due tomorrow. Both are still barebones and need work.

Instead, though, I spent the day watching Big Love on demand, flushing out my system with echinacea and vitamin C, thinking about the past and the future and how to best go about making pumpkin muffins.

So what did I accomplish? I lessened my infection, I think. I pondered what my hair would look like a la Ginnifer Goodwin in Season Three. I made the muffins. I vacuumed the floor. I did work a bit on the papers.


I can’t say I made much eternal progress in anything yesterday. Except the muffins. They were amazing.




This past weekend, as everyone everywhere lauded mothers and grandmothers and stepmothers and den mothers…I was far from forgotten.

I got cards and aloe plants and an app for my phone that lets me pretend to run from zombies.

My husband was just as sweet and accommodating as he always is on days like that. For some reason it always means so much to me when I get mentioned on his facebook or other public forum. It’s very high school and probably a reflection of some deep seated problem, but it makes me all warm and fuzzy. He knows this. He indulged me.

As always happens on days that are so built up, though, I was at a bit of a loss.

I mean, people. I had the bomb-diggety-ass mom. Everything was always so clean and she was always so….pure. I will always feel like a little bit of a letdown as compared to Asskicking Anita.

My kids know I love them. I love them the best way I know how, with everything that is in my being. That love, for me, manifests in bitchy and nagging more often than cuddles or sweetness. I nag because I want them to be warm, to be clean, to look kind of groomed.

My kind of love – the nurturing I have within me – will likely never materialize in the form of sparkling kitchens and folded sheets. I will never Bree Van de Kamp my way up and down any lane, or greet new people with a basket of muffins. It will probably always annoy me a little when someone drops by with no notice – just because I worry they might see the dust bunnies or the stupid kitchen floor. I will never sit up and slip my feet into waiting slippers and drink coffee in a plushy robe. It’s just not what I do.

So when Mother’s Day comes around, I always feel a little lacking. Even though I’m not. I just mother…differently, I suppose.