Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better. Even Wal-Mart. Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.
My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row. I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.
A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull. I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within. I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.
It's probably dehydration. Darn.
Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners. Seriously, Moonshiners. I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle. No. With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.
An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up. I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously? Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks. We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35. (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight. Happy New Year! Huzzah!)
On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year. It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore. I'm in a bad mood. I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes. I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry. Sad me is sad.
My guitar hangs from a peg on my bedroom wall. I'm mediocre at so many things, but I especially struggle with the guitar. While my youngest was still in the womb, I took lessons with a little old Irish guy at a local music shop that has since gone out of business. In the hands of my teacher, my guitar sang like a heartbroken lover or a carefree dancer. In my stuttering hands, my guitar hesitates and falters. Practice makes things perfect, usually, but I haven't been able to bring myself to practice in a couple of years. Last night, so lost for something to do, I pulled the guitar down and tuned it. I thumbed through a few easy melodies, single notes, no chords. As I pick away at a phrase, my baby boy, now four years old, walks in and watched me.
"What are you doing?" He asked, sucking in his lower lip beneath his front teeth.
"Do you remember when I used to play guitar when you were in my tummy?"
"Yes." He says. I don't know if he really remembers, but I want to believe it's true. That even my imperfection means something to him. Even the best of my worst (or the worst of my best) tickles his memory of a time before.
I've managed a lot of good things in 2013. I've written two novels and a short story, all of which I hope to edit and do something with in 2014. I've randomly become a runner and completed my first race, a 10K (6.2 miles) in December. All good things, but I feel guilty. In pursuit of any of my goals I've been more withdrawn from friends and family and lately I've been feeling like I'm the reason why certain of my kids struggle in school or my house isn't very clean.
At the moment, all that I accomplished in 2013 matters little to anyone else, even my family. My kids don't care that I can run a mile in 11 minutes or that I'd like to try to run the equivalent of a half marathon in one outing before 2014 is through. They don't care what happens to Claire or Liam, or if Lucy figures out why she's in Mitte. They don't care if my horse gets ridden every couple of days or if there's manure in the pastures. Maybe they will care someday, but right now I don't see it.
2013 was kind to me, but I want 2014 to be kind to my entire family. For the blessings that surround me to surround them, as well. I want the best of my worst and the worst of my best to mean more to everyone I love. That's what I want for 2014, not just riding and publishing and miles.
To mean. To matter. To make a difference.
No comments:
Post a Comment
You are awesome. Comment some more and I will be sure to tell you again. :)