Now Landing, Gratitude

I heaved the shopping cart around the market last night for over an hour. By the end of that hour, I gave serious thought to texting my husband and telling him to come help me tow the load to the checkout. I was exhausted. With two cases of water weighing down my painfully full carriage of groceries, I had lost my momentum and was now leaning into the load which was creeping towards checkout at a rate of 1LSPH (Linoleum Square Per Hour).  This is shopping for a family of 6 and 1 dog.  I felt like a Toyota pulling the space shuttle.  

I docked the space shuttle at lane 4. The nice young man bagging my order asked me three times if plastic was ok, and three times I said, “yes.” The nice young man asked me three times if I found everything I was looking for tonight. “Yes,” I replied three times as if my bulging cart wasn’t indication enough that I had found all that I hoped for and more. He continued bagging at a rate of 1BPH (bag per hour) while I multi-tasked between watching the register screen for accurate pricing and intermittently cherry-picking the delicate items being carelessly tossed down the conveyor by my cashier (serving me since 1983). Yes, I’m that lady.  

The nice young man was so far behind on bagging that my items were crunching, crushing and colliding into one another as they backed up into a mountainous, heart-breaking  pile. Finally, the cashier had to stop the belt and help him bag. I helped him bag.  I gave him the requisite stink-eye as I reached into the bottom of the mound for a bag of chips which was now certainly a bag of birdseed.

I resisted a second urge to text my husband. Help me.

When the nice, egg-breaking, chip-crushing, card-smashing  young man didn’t offer to help me out to the car, I tearfully dragged my cart through the black, crushed snow in the dark parking lot.  Bumping, skipping, sinking, and trudging through slush, the cart’s wheels became wedged with chunks of ice and I had to carry the cart on my back the rest of the way to the car. One of the bags broke under the weight of three bottles of sparkling cider and 9 cans of canned chicken.  Chicken bounced off my bumper and plunged with a splash into the melted slush between my freezing feet. Sparkling cider rolled to a stop against the tire of the parked car beside me.

I was instantly relieved the young man hadn’t helped me to the car or I might be shoving his body into my trunk along with 9 cans of dirty, dented chicken. Parked in my garage at home, I teared up at the tasks ahead of unloading and sorting my haul. Luckily, the husband could see it on my face that I had to sacrifice a courtesy clerk just to make it home with my eggs in-tact. He helped me unload and put away my freezer goods in the garage. Never mind that in the house, I had about two weeks of crusty Thanksgiving  left-over’s, uncovered, wilting fruit, and spoiled eggnog to dispose of before any of my new items would fit in the fridge. Every year I excitedly buy eggnog like it’s some kind of interior fridge Christmas décor and every year it sits front and center, untouched on the top shelf.

*toss*

By the end of my herculean grocery effort, I had convinced myself that I probably have some kind of blood disorder which is rendering me this fatigued.  “I’m just so tired. I feel like I’m tired all the time. I can barely lift my arms.” I whined in my head.  I suppose it has nothing to do with hauling the space shuttle around King Soopers for over an hour.

 Alas, I know I don’t have a strength-sucking disorder.  I’m just a busy, tired mommy.  I was tempted to reach for a crushed bag of birdseed chips and collapse on the couch with marathon episodes of Amish Mafia. Instead, I kissed the husband and surrendered to the day’s demands. I crawled into my freshly washed, freshly made, deeply warm and widely comfortable bed.  I was thankful for my bed. I was thankful for the sound of football on TV in the living room below. 

 As I fell asleep safe and sound, I was even thankful for a space shuttle full of groceries for my family.

Women Who (Still) Do Too Much

     It's not usually like this. It's just been a hard week, a lot going on. I've been so busy. The excuses pile up like so much laundry on the floor.
     Before bed last night, I rummaged through an ecclectic assortment of laundry, hair product, a spent coffee cup and an empty Kleenex box on my bathroom counter top to find my toothpaste, which had been squeezed to the end of its useful life because I haven't had time to go to the Market. After I faux-brushed my teeth, I hop-scotched across still more laundry, a phone charger, and ironically, a stack of Market ads from Sunday which now had collected a silt of dust. My eyes were puffy, new wrinkles had etched their way across my face and my thinning hair looked unbearably thinner.For extra self-loathing, I squeezed my fat roll. Ugh. 

      I hopped into bed and knocked over two empty water bottles on the nightstand while frantically looking for my insomnia meds. Unable to identify what pills I had accidentally co-mingled in a nameless pile on the nightstand, I reached for three random pills of various sizes, cut one in half (to reduce the risk of overdose, of course) and hoped sleep would find me. It didn't.
In the morning, I navigated my way backwards through the same impossible gauntlet of my room, all the way  down to my *still* empty toothpaste.

     Eager to escape the melee of my bedroom, I dressed in the same sexy yoga pants, tired and torn t-shirt, and very fashion-forward Powell Middle School hoodie I have been wearing for the last four consecutive days (coincidentally,  the same day I ran out of toothpaste). My husband hasn't complained yet, so I chipped away at something crusty on my pants, tightened my drawstrings and began my day. Even though I left chaos in my wake, I walked into the rest of the house with a sense of satisfaction and peace because I knew everything else in my house was perfect. Sort of.

     The dishes sat sparkling in the enclave of their sanitary dishwasher. The laundry was clean and tightly folded in neat stacks by size, color and alphabetically by brand. (ok, no.) Perfectly arranged, the ornaments on the Christmas tree spun and glittered in the glow of the porch light which was being snuffed out by the rising sun. The tables were clear and clean, the napkins perfectly angled on freshly-pressed linen placemats (again, no).
     The point is, my house is in perfect order. I know where every backpack, pen, movie blanket, remote control are. I can tell you without looking where to find your favorite coffee mug, the book you were reading for homework last night and how many chewy fruit snacks are left in the third drawer of the storage pantry. Everyone is well-provided for, maintained and in good working order. Not a worry, not a care.I take care of the cares.  Every need, every demand, every clean pair of jeans placed neatly at the foot of your crisply made bed.
     My mom used to float a book around my childhood home titled, Women Who Do Too Much and I used to think to myself, "Why would anyone in their right mind do that?" And now I know. I even know why someone wrote a book about it. Because we are women, that's why. Hear us pack lunches, volunteer at school, buy, sell, mop floors, run errands, run to the mailbox, walk the dog (and go to the gym, wrap gifts, write checks, refill toilet paper and wipe out the sink while we're at it).
     As a result of my doing-too-much-edness my bedroom is a disaster. I'm a disaster. I'm a woman who Does Too Much. I'm officially my mother.
*lets head fall back painfully with exaggerated sigh* Well, that's not so bad. At least I recognize that I'm doing too much. The problem is that I recognize it, and then I do more.

     I sat bedside in the pediatricians office this morning while my son had his cast removed. He reclined on the crinkling paper, and moaned that his stomach was hurting. "It started this morning," he said when I asked when he began feeling that way. He should stay home today. I will have to call school, I will have to cancel my class with Deb. I wonder if the Dr will check his stomach if I ask. After all, we are only on the docket for a cast removal not a check-up. They may charge me. How much do I have in the checking? I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten yet, have I? No...
     "The Doctor is running late, he should be here in about 15 minutes. I apologize." Said Nurse Crazy-Scrubs. I closed the door behind her and flipped off the obnoxiously bright florescent lights.
The early morning sun crept in through the blinds, casting an easy, soothing, dark blue glow in the west-facing room.  I put my head on the edge of the foam-filled table and listened to my son breathe. Slowly. Quietly. The generator outside stroked the office walls with a hypnotic vibration. Forgetting about school, my appointment, the office bill, I listened to the quiet. I sat still. I closed my eyes. I checked-in with myself, reminding me that I'm ok and it's ok to just sit still. It's ok. I felt my body melt like hot lead into the plastic chair. I visualized warm, yellow lights swirling through my body, top to bottom.
     I rested. Hard.
     It was the first time in 13 years I was blissfully relieved to be waiting in a doctor's office and I welcomed his tardiness. I wished he would never come. I wished they would forget that we were even in there. Welcoming a few stolen moments of ridiculously precious solitude, I didn't open my eyes until the rushing Doctor flung back the door, stared questionably into the darkness and flipped the lights awake. "Good morning, so sorry to keep you waiting." He smiled, and held out his hand to shake as if he hasn't seen me at least once a quarter for the last thirteen years. By now, I think we should hug. Instead, I shook his hand, took renewed breath, smiled and told him, "It's ok."