He doesn't remember where we were ten years ago. He doesn't remember that I was bouncing a crying baby in the middle of a food court at the mall. He doesn't remember that I was sad that day, and that our fussy three month old baby could sense the difference in me. He still doesn't know why I finally said yes, after he had asked no less than two dozen times in the previous year.
We live in the age of too much. We’re buying too much. We already own too much and owe too much. We’re doing too much. We can’t take care of ourselves because we have too much on our calendar, too much on our plate. We go to bed and can’t sleep because we have too much on our minds. Anxiety ridden, overwhelmed, and approaching a milestone birthday, I decided it was time to let some things go. I found a way to exhale, and so can you.
My son's freckled face burned red. His tiny ten-year-old body sank into his seat as he stared intently out the window at the fields full of cattle passing by in a blur. I glanced over at his dad, white-knuckling the steering wheel and undoubtedly wishing he could be anywhere else at that moment. It was time.
I'm 60% song lyrics, and 30% useless trivia. There are far too many beautiful moments with my children for me to keep them all up there in the 10% left, especially when I can't seem to forget my many parenting fails.
"Jessie Hoag is a WebMD-diagnosing, anxiety-ridden, hypochondriac mother of three clinging to her sense of humor like a life preserver. Join her at the chicken bacon ranch and watch as the beautifully horrific shitshow unravels..."
Maybe you get in the car and just drive, never worrying that along the way you might meet some asshole who's texting or trying to eat fucking pancakes while he drives. That's good. You shouldn't think about that.
Any parent trying to raise humans in this world has to have a healthy amount of rage, lest we crumble beneath the weight of fear.
The worst pain of my life is still just an 8. As a realist, I know to factor in the potential for future pain, as well as the pain of others. I've never been shot or stabbed, so I have to leave room for that.
So, just to clarify, she's thankful for Santa and presents, but she called the shelf elf an "asshole tattler" last week. Even though I don't disagree with her assessment, we did a round of "we don't talk like that", which is code for "only mommy can talk like that".
The ones who are meant to leave us too soon certainly seem to shine a little brighter than the rest of us while they're here.