Disclaimer: This is a complaint-filled post. If you are “triggered” by privileged people complaining about their lives even though they have it better than 99% of the population, then you misunderstand the nature of my blog. Please go somewhere else.
Y’all, I’m tired. Like, soul-weary tired. I can’t even. What’s the point? What is there to look forward to? Our well-planned family trip to the UK is probably not going to happen. K’s bat mitzvah is in January, but we don’t really know what the world will look like this January. Will a bat mitzvah with all our friends and family even be possible?
And there are people around me. All. The. Time. Even when I go to the bathroom, I’ve got people pounding down my door and insisting that it’s an emergency.
“What’s the emergency?” I bark at the kid who managed to pick the lock.
“I think my finger looks bruised.” Says the kid, oblivious to the fact that my pants are around my ankles and I’m holding a wad of toilet paper.
“Get. Out.” I growl.
“Can I have a hug?” The kid asks, coming towards me with outstretched arms.
This is not a one time occurrence. This conversation or one very much like it happens at least five times a week. Maybe I should post a flow chart on my bathroom door:
You know, I just spent half an hour making that flow chart. This is what I do under stress. Flow charts, Bingo cards, top ten lists. Obviously a way better use of my time than identifying and solving my problems.
This afternoon I spent an hour ignoring my kids so I could get some work done. I set up my table saw and cut everything I needed to cut for as many projects as I could think of: a pullout desk in the library, shelves for inside my vanity cabinet, a new drawer for our violin bows. I just love running things through that saw. No matter how crazy everything else in my life gets, that saw always cuts straight and square. Perfection.
I was graced with a few moments of sunshine while I was working on the back patio, so I took the opportunity to take a couple of “look at me in my coveralls and work boots using big power tools” selfies.
I could tell you more about my day, but I won’t because I’m just out of clucks to give. So you won’t hear me rambling about how in the absence of matzah my kids made themselves black beans and salsa for breakfast, or about how truly confusing and crappy K’s school assignments are, or about the fact that today’s “counting the omer” good thing was “Choosing names for our future pet chickens.” (There are no pet chickens in our future, I can assure you.)
As I type this I’m praying that nobody calls for me or asks me anything, because right now the only words I can summon in response to “Eema?” are “PLEASE STOP TALKING TO ME!”
If I went to bed now, would my husband or kids notice? Let’s find out.