back to my regularly scheduled life
August 3, 2006
It has been strange. This coming back home. Surreal even. I wasn’t prepared for this.
It’s only fitting that this morning, within moments of sitting down with my laptop and coffee at my breakfast room table, my 19 month old son knocked over my cup of coffee. It poured out all over the table and by the time I got a dishrag it had poured off the end of the table and onto the floor.
It is an old house; the floors are not level. Nothing forms a puddle in my house, it forms a river.
I began cleaning it up and the mess kept getting farther and farther away from me. It is 8:00am and already it is oppressively hot here. And I was annoyed.
My 19 month old son splashed through the coffee. “Uh-oh.” he said. Stamp-stamp-stamp in the river of coffee.
I was angry. “Get out of the damn coffee!” I wanted to yell. But I didn’t. I looked over at him crouched down in the coffee, his eyebrows raised, and his mouth in the perfect “O” shape and I felt guilty and sad.
I had been away, on my own, all alone for 6 days and I come home with less patience than I left with. Instead of feeling rejuvinated, I feel something else. I am annoyed at myself and my own insecurities. I read the accounts of the conference written by other people and wonder if I were really there. I mean all of the things that people have blogged about happened, yet all of them together somehow do not form the whole picture. And I am not even sure that it makes sense.
I am saddened by the way I feel I was treated by a friend. And I guess lonely. After meeting, talking, laughing with so many interesting women I feel a definite lack in my real life.
Yes, I feel lonely. Which is ironic considering I have seven children who never leave me alone for even a minute and who talk to me until my ear drums rupture and I become deaf.
We finished cleaning up the coffee “together” which really means I cleaned it up, and cleaned him up, and tried to make it SEEM. LIKE. FUN!!!
As I walked back into the breakfast room I glanced out the picture window and see that an animal has gotten into our garbage cans once again. All our garbage is spread out over hell’s half acre. I mentally chastise myself for having my 11 yr old bring the trash out last night, though simultaneously wonder just how difficult it is to secure the garbage can lid properly.
I sat back down with a fresh half cup of coffee, since that is all that was left in the pot, and open my laptop. My daughter snuggled up next to me on the bench. Her little index finger stroking circles on my arm. Her finger found my shoulder and began scraping away at what remains of my temporary tattoo.
“Mommy take this off now. You need to take this off. It’s not yours.”
I know what she means. And she is right. It is time to get back to my regularly scheduled life.
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