![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I drove the kids to the airport this morning and put them on a plane back home. The little one said his stomach was bothering him so I gave him a dose of Pepto and hoped for the best. I'll be relieved if he makes it through the flight without doing his best Linda Blair impression. He was more excited about the possibility of actually being able to utilize the barf bags than he was bothered by the queasiness. Boys. I did warn the stewardess and she seemed completely nonplussed by the whole thing.
So now I'm back in this house full of boxes, with that awful feeling I always have when my children are beyond my protective reach, waiting for the hours to pass until I hear that they've arrived safely. I rattle around the house, looking at what I still have left to pack, alternating between panic at how much is left to do and satisfaction with how much I've actually accomplished on my own. I tell myself that I'll be home soon and everything will begin to find its place again, including me and the boys. Talking with friends back home and trying to get my house in order as much as I can before I get there has begun to bring the heartbeat of my former home back to me. I pass my days here with a sense of the movement of life there and I feel the connections starting to grow again where I've had only phantom pains for so many months.
Still, I have so many things to sort out. I feel like all this struggling and scrambling to get here, all the struggling and scrambling to grow into this new place, and even more struggling and scrambling to disentangle myself from the failure of it all---it's worn me thin, down to the bone. I've had to let go of so much hope in such a short time that it's left me desolate at times. I suppose I will find my salvation where I've always found it, in my sheer willful defiance and refusal to be beaten down...even by my own self-inflicted miseries. My grandmother used to always say that there is always someone who would be happy to have my worst luck. So I can't even really relish feeling sorry for myself for too long. I have two healthy kids. I have a beautiful house to go back to, friends and family who love me. My life is, even with the dark patches, fuller and brighter than I could have ever imagined.
I'm just superstitious enough not to tempt fate to show me what real misery is. I knock on wood, I thank my lucky stars. I cultivate a gratefulness for the days as they pass. Even my leaving here is the beginning of a new adventure. I wonder about what I should change, about how I can make things better. I don't guess that's any different than what everyone else does every day.
So now I'm back in this house full of boxes, with that awful feeling I always have when my children are beyond my protective reach, waiting for the hours to pass until I hear that they've arrived safely. I rattle around the house, looking at what I still have left to pack, alternating between panic at how much is left to do and satisfaction with how much I've actually accomplished on my own. I tell myself that I'll be home soon and everything will begin to find its place again, including me and the boys. Talking with friends back home and trying to get my house in order as much as I can before I get there has begun to bring the heartbeat of my former home back to me. I pass my days here with a sense of the movement of life there and I feel the connections starting to grow again where I've had only phantom pains for so many months.
Still, I have so many things to sort out. I feel like all this struggling and scrambling to get here, all the struggling and scrambling to grow into this new place, and even more struggling and scrambling to disentangle myself from the failure of it all---it's worn me thin, down to the bone. I've had to let go of so much hope in such a short time that it's left me desolate at times. I suppose I will find my salvation where I've always found it, in my sheer willful defiance and refusal to be beaten down...even by my own self-inflicted miseries. My grandmother used to always say that there is always someone who would be happy to have my worst luck. So I can't even really relish feeling sorry for myself for too long. I have two healthy kids. I have a beautiful house to go back to, friends and family who love me. My life is, even with the dark patches, fuller and brighter than I could have ever imagined.
I'm just superstitious enough not to tempt fate to show me what real misery is. I knock on wood, I thank my lucky stars. I cultivate a gratefulness for the days as they pass. Even my leaving here is the beginning of a new adventure. I wonder about what I should change, about how I can make things better. I don't guess that's any different than what everyone else does every day.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
He was more excited about the possibility of actually being able to utilize the barf bags than he was bothered by the queasiness. Boys.
heh.
With great hillarity O and I make monstrous gastro-intestinal noises, blaming them on every thing from little Ulysses (the fellow in utero) to the kitchen sink, we always end up 'fessing up in the end however and appologizing to H's mock disaproval.
When a co-worker of mine from Korea found out that H was pregnant with yet another boy, she said, "poor Mrs. B... She's got three boys now"
When I corrected her and said, the new feller would only be our second, she said with a smile, "she's go you doesn't she?"
How goes the job search? Can you make it back to your old gig?
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
i love this.
talk about wise. (you're blessed, it must run in the family.)
safe, safe travels for all of you, and peace at the end of the journey, (and some it now as well-!)
D.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject