Busted on the Bloor Line: Catch All, Catch Up

I can’t honestly believe that almost an entire month has gone by without posting. The pace of life, the hectic nature of things right now, the combustable nature of my days means that I am without a coherent thought most evenings after work, after the RRBB goes down. And his sleeping has been so erratic that it means neither of us is well rested, which only adds to the frazzled nature of our lives at the moment. We can’t seem to get it together. No, let me rephrase, I can’t seem to get it together. To say that I’m overwhelmed would be an understatement. I’m terrified I’ll crack at any moment, fissures the size of the grand canyon appearing in my psyche, ruining all of the hard work I’ve done over the last decade to keep everything together. And then, I come home after a long day and the RRBB is so excited to see me, he practically leaps into my arms, and we have a good bedtime, plenty of splashes in the bath, and a wonderful cuddle, and my RRHB makes dinner, and he keeps the house wonderfully, and I realize that it’s all going to be okay as long as I can just keep it together enough to get into bed early and get some rest to start up and do it all over again tomorrow.

Over the next few days, I’m going to get caught up, on some things at least. I’ve got three whole days off — vacation! — what a concept. As we speak, I’m sitting at a Starbucks working on my NANOWRIMO project (woefully off word count but I’m at least trying!) feeling like I’m playing hooky from my life. It’s actually kind of brilliant. The RRBB’s in daycare. The RRHB’s off doing music. And I’m typing. I really, really like typing. I don’t even care if I ever get anywhere with any of it. The fact that I’m moving my fingers along the keyboard stringing metaphors up and hanging myself is all that I can handle at the moment.

I wish that I had the video of the RRBB walking to post. He’s jaunty and deliciously off kilter, swaying back and forth with a look of concentration, pride, and pure terror on his face as he careens from me to his father and back again. Yesterday, he toddled around with his Elmo phone backwards and upside down on his ear saying, “Hi!, Hi!” over and over again. Everyday he becomes a little more human. And I keep thinking that this time last year we’d already been to the hospital with him twice, brought me back from the brink, and managed to finally get home to our lives in one piece. The constant struggle to keep everything in one piece seems relentless. I want to sit down and have a conference with all of the working moms I know to talk about just how they do it — how they keep everything straight and manage to not feel pulled in a thousand directions all at once. It’s funny, I was out for dinner with all of my oldest and dearest girlfriends the other weekend. The first time I’d been out socially in forever. And it was insane how I could barely string a sentence together. The evening ended up with me leaving a three-day-old burrito on the table because I a) hadn’t had time to eat lunch and b) I never manage to get my bag cleaned out and organized the night before, even though I probably should. I know I’m exaggerating a little. But not really. The frantic pace of keeping the little boy’s life moving along seems to supersede actually getting my own s%^t together. And yet, when my life generally gets this crazy, I usually go absolutely batty. Can’t keep it together. Spend hours in a bathroom with a toothbrush and some bleach getting out all the kinks. And I’m not there, not even remotely, in fact. I’m stressed and anxious and grumpy a lot of the time but I’m not actually unhappy. It’s an interesting distinction. Yesterday, I was more than a little frustrated. I mean, I need a haircut. Need to eat a good meal that isn’t a decaf latte and a muffin. Need to find time to go swimming. Need fresh air. And yet, as I watched my little guy pull out his tenth book that we’ve both read a hundred times, pull out toy after toy, exclaim, “that!” for the seventy-billionth time, I thought, “at least we’re getting this right.” Because it doesn’t matter what I get wrong in the day. It doesn’t matter if I’m behind in everything. All that matters is keeping him safe, sound and confident enough to get up on two feet and careen into the world.

Now if only I could keep my own shoes on straight, then we’d really be getting somewhere. I guess the lesson in all of this is that it’ll take as long as it takes to get organized and into a proper, non-chaotic, routine. Things need to change. I need to change. I need to put my clothes away and get them out the night before. I need to pack up our stuff the night before. I need to actually write the list in advance instead of in the midst of the chaos. Or, truly, I just need to take a few deep breaths and take it all in. And try not to let the stress feed the disease and then we’ll be back in the thick of it again. It’s been a tireless year of meds and more meds and broken bones and broken bodies, and I hope when I see the SFDD this week that he has good news for me. And couple that with a good night’s sleep and maybe I won’t feel so scatterbrained.

And now I’m just rambling.