More than once in the bedlam of life, I pause midst the turmoil and dream of the calm respite and peace of a sanatorium. In my mind’s eye I can picture it, a scene of serenity—of oblivion, a fluffy white robe and solicitous persons wheeling me about in a garden of quiet fog. I envision a peaceful existence far, far away from the cares and concerns of a life careening out of control. I can almost hear the music of songbirds in the distance…
Dear Me, Today, it’s the squawk and screech of two boys chasing a bird loose in the house, flapping about hither and thither while the stereo blasts and teenage girls dance over my head to a television, telephone and doorbell accompaniment.[1] Manic me, T.
What would be the downside of having myself committed for a week or two? I hear stories from the mother-in-law when she was a nurse, of a woman who was admitted to the hospital for a week’s stay…with her sewing machine. Her physician’s order was to serve her food and leave her alone. Why not me? I’m already a prisoner of my own volition—I deserve the sentence because I committed the crime—children. I brought them on myself.
Whenever my world is at its wildest, I imagine a reprieve. It doesn’t have to be in the form of full clemency, but just enough to grant me a momentary glimpse of peace—a respite from the iconoclastic[2] world of progeny. I need to be bored again with life… if only for just a moment!
[1] The internal debate topic today is: electricity, curse or blessing.
[2] One who seeks to overthrow traditional institutions. (so appropriate here)
Friday
Monday
…steep
Life has not always been so chaotic. There was a time in the not so distant past when women spent part of each day loosening the pull strings of their taut bag of burdens over a nice hot cup of peace in the next-door neighbor’s kitchen.
Today, it feels that I am left alone to stuff my own bag with a mélange of calming curatives and coping strategies that promise to soothe and ease the stressors of everyday life. Of the many varied therapies that purport to calm, appease and relieve, I’ve selected journaling as my new panacea.
To: allandsundry@blog.out
Hey everybody, the quest today is to find humor in the Grape Nuts[1] glued to the kitchen table by the puddle of maple syrup dripping off the edge and onto the floor. The diapered culprit sits in the middle of the mess, with his chubby legs in the air yelling, “Ouch! Mommy, Help!” Love ya, sticky, icky Me
Reality Bite: Humor can’t come until the mop-up is done.
When the scum of life’s toughest situations float to the top of the simmering pot, rather than let it boil over, I vent—on paper. Then, when I return back to a slow simmer, I can amend the tirades and I send them off to other persons steeped in similar stews. This is my way to succor others, like the wise women from the not-so-distant past who knew the risks and perils of trying to float alone on this roiling boil.
My notes and conversations are not intended as personal satire, (because satire requires wit) but as observations of life and an analysis of the hot water that I find myself in, again.
If, by chance, I can manage to salvage humor from the dregs of the previous pot-full, that makes it easier to blow off the next upset and thus return to a functional simmer. These coping strategies may not resolve all the problems, and I may still bubble over, but the raucous whistle I let off reminds the children that it’s time to back off and let Mom write.[2]
Reality Bite: I’m committed! Or should be? See, it all works.
[1] Free commercial product placement. Who in their right advertising mind, would want to place a product in this medium for cash? This blog, if you haven’t noticed, is not the Super Bowl.
[2] Caviet: If you are now, or have been ever, under the mistaken presumption that the intent of this blog is to fill the void of parenting advice manuals, STOP. Now you can proceed.
Today, it feels that I am left alone to stuff my own bag with a mélange of calming curatives and coping strategies that promise to soothe and ease the stressors of everyday life. Of the many varied therapies that purport to calm, appease and relieve, I’ve selected journaling as my new panacea.
To: allandsundry@blog.out
Hey everybody, the quest today is to find humor in the Grape Nuts[1] glued to the kitchen table by the puddle of maple syrup dripping off the edge and onto the floor. The diapered culprit sits in the middle of the mess, with his chubby legs in the air yelling, “Ouch! Mommy, Help!” Love ya, sticky, icky Me
Reality Bite: Humor can’t come until the mop-up is done.
When the scum of life’s toughest situations float to the top of the simmering pot, rather than let it boil over, I vent—on paper. Then, when I return back to a slow simmer, I can amend the tirades and I send them off to other persons steeped in similar stews. This is my way to succor others, like the wise women from the not-so-distant past who knew the risks and perils of trying to float alone on this roiling boil.
My notes and conversations are not intended as personal satire, (because satire requires wit) but as observations of life and an analysis of the hot water that I find myself in, again.
If, by chance, I can manage to salvage humor from the dregs of the previous pot-full, that makes it easier to blow off the next upset and thus return to a functional simmer. These coping strategies may not resolve all the problems, and I may still bubble over, but the raucous whistle I let off reminds the children that it’s time to back off and let Mom write.[2]
Reality Bite: I’m committed! Or should be? See, it all works.
[1] Free commercial product placement. Who in their right advertising mind, would want to place a product in this medium for cash? This blog, if you haven’t noticed, is not the Super Bowl.
[2] Caviet: If you are now, or have been ever, under the mistaken presumption that the intent of this blog is to fill the void of parenting advice manuals, STOP. Now you can proceed.
Friday
Book Resumed
If you wish to read excerpts from the rest of this book in order, click on the chapter labels in the right column.
Happy reading.
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