Here’s my tale of woe for this
First, I think it’s necessary to preface this with a reminder of how insufferable The Who has been for the past two weeks or more. Yes, the whining and door-slamming and doomsday scenarios as usual (for the past six months), but also he was first getting sick, then sick, then getting better. And his appetite has been nil and he’s been hangry for what seems like weeks. There have been intermittent bursts of his old charming self. There have been cuddly mornings and deep conversations and time spent together on art projects. But, still. It’s been what I would categorize as generally unpleasant and trying for a long time now.
So, there’s that.
Then, there was the Winter Party at school. This is not my first rodeo, friends. I have planned and volunteered at two classroom events already and they all follow the same formula. And not only is it not my first rodeo, but it’s also not rocket science. It’s not any of those cliches that I can throw at it. It’s in my wheelhouse, this Homeroom Mom business. I’m good at it. Except this time. Epic failure. I recruited people to bring things in that were contraband, I emailed the wrong volunteers, I forgot to tell everyone about the party time-change. I planned a craft that took too long. It took me at lest five emails with the teacher to understand a classroom policy. None of it was good. I mean, don’t get me wrong; the party was a total success. All the volunteers showed, all the donations arrived on time, the craft went off without a hitch, and the teacher even had time to open our class gift before we had to leave. But I didn’t feel good about it. I sure did stumble on the road to get there.
And, speaking of stumbling. When I got home and after I cleaned up the huge mess I had left from craft-prep on the table (seriously, it was like Edward Scissorhands up in here) I went back to put my slippers on. Coming back up the one step into the kitchen — and with both my phone and a full beverage in my hand) I tripped and fell into the kitchen — shoulder into the pots and pans, shin on the corner of the step. The Who immediately called down to see if I was ok and although I said I was (and, for all practical purposes, I was) I still stayed prone on the floor, crying. I knew I wasn’t crying because I was hurt. I was just…crying.
m* came down from resting (she’s sick this week) and showed me a lot of compassion as she cleaned up the sticky spill and then when I curled up into a ball on the couch, she laid an ice pack on my [now thrice] injured knee.
Now I’m achy. And tired. And I could really use a shower. And I am in the middle of making quesadillas (which I paused so I could eat one) but the kitchen looks like a jar of salsa exploded into a bag of shredded cheese. And I’m cold. And I seem to only be interested in drinking soda lately, which means I am constantly thirsty. And it’s too early for The Who to go to bed, but I don’t want to hear his voice for one more second (even though it is incredibly sweet) and I have no plans tomorrow. Or Friday. Or Saturday. Or Sunday. Or…you get the picture.
I don’t think my new full spectrum lamp is doing its job yet.