I abandoned you five months ago, blog. You're not alone. I kind of abandoned myself somewhere along the way, too, so I know how it feels.
I had myself convinced that reading ramblings of motherhood, barring some drama such as extreme prematurity, wouldn't appeal to anyone. And that may be true. But boy is something missing when I don't purge what's on my mind in this way. So I decided to hop on today--well, rephrase--I decided to refuse to leave the house today but encourage my husband and kids to do so, to see if I could rekindle our spark, you and me. Mostly me, I admit. (Sorry blog, it's true: I'm using you.)
I enter every decision in my life with extreme doubt. Doubt in my ability to see it through. Doubt in the probability of it turning out well. Doubt in whether success and happiness is what I deserve, probably. Childhood trauma, however major or minor, turned soul-infesting expectation that shit is gonna go down, if you will. So in April, I decided to go back to school. I was considering various Masters programs, and they all seemed to end behind a desk, in front of a computer, donning business-casual, conservative gold hoop earrings, and a lovely, perfectly acceptable bob. Why? I don't know. But it didn't lend me the spark I needed to dive in and go for it. Then I entertained the idea of indulging in a seedy little pleasure I had beginning when I was much younger. I loved "playing" with hair. It seems like my thought process was, "well that would be ridiculous--you going to school for that, after being a teacher and a writer. . .AWESOME! Let's do it!" So here I am, mid-dive off a comfortable and solid cliff and an ocean of possibility, and all I can say is, "what in the hell was I thinking?!"
Not because I don't enjoy what I'm learning. "Playing" with hair is, indeed, highly entertaining for me. I have a lot left to learn, but I'm doing well and having fun with it. I'm the old lady of the group, though, and it's incredibly difficult to mesh with the other students--my antithetical peers--but it's good practice. I intend whole-heartedly to run my own business one way or another, so I'd better get used to feeling like the odd man out.
But going to school every night with a husband and three kids left at home? Brilliant move. Granted, this is all happening during the kids' summer break, so I have the ratrace of playing recreation director by day, good student at night, followed by the inevitable wifely duties (and yes, I am referring to the whole, chef-in-the-kitchen/maid-in-the-livingroom/whore-in-the-bedroom trilogy) and I'm. Freaking. EXHAUSTED.
If I had thought about this more, I may never have done it. I guess in a way, it's good that I didn't. That's always part of my problem: overthinking. It's what stops me from so many things, the what-ifs. I didn't consider that I would become the type of parent to say, "Mommy's just going to rest her eyes for a few minutes," and proceed to completely pass out for a solid hour while Charlotte takes a nap, or the type to find wrinkled clean clothes in a laundry basket for days in a row because folding and putting away seems like a monumental waste of time, or the type of wife who would tell my husband that if he wants sex that bad, he should find a girlfriend.
Nevertheless, here we are, trudging along, blazing through the doubt like the soldiers that we know we are (ie, after Charlotte, can't we get through anything?). I'm not clear where we'll land, but I know for sure that I cannot wait for the kids to go back to school--Addalie's starting Kindergarten!--and we'll all be alright in the end.
I think. I hope.
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