Last night, my son had a track meet in a city about an hour from home.
With my younger son's schedule, and the fact that it was a school night, I decided not to go to the meet (which kills me) and pick up older son when the bus returned to school.
My husband was at work (he works 48-72 hours at a time) so I was the one doing all the picking up.
At 9:45 when older son texts me he's near the school -- when I'm sort of grumbling to myself about how late it is -- I get in the car and head over to get him.
This is when the self-pity can worm its way in. Easy to do when driving, looking like this.
← I mean, you're focused on driving, kind of.
But thinking about everything else.
(Admit it, we all do this).
Why do I have to do this?
Why can't my husband be home?
Why this and why that?
I stopped myself. Nope. Not gonna do that. Feeling sorry for myself was getting old, like, annoyingly old.
No. I would think about other things. I would think about how I was hungry.
I brought some Fritos with me and opened them.
No. Let's be really awesome here and be happy, I thought, crunching into a chip.
I should've brought coffee, was my next thought. Where was my brain? Not so awesome of me.
I wondered if my dog was doing this as I drove away. On my bed. Happy as can be.
Undoubtedly, yes.
Instead, I said to myself:
I get to do this!
I get to do things on my own and be capable and cool and unneedy.
I get to be in the car with my first born.
I get to eat chips --while wearing my slippers and listening to jazz music -- and no one is going to complain about that. Very cool.
Best of all, I get to see this face when I get him.
This post has nothing to do with writing, or books, or anything other than me being a mom.
And that's cool, too.
Yay for being a mom.
With my younger son's schedule, and the fact that it was a school night, I decided not to go to the meet (which kills me) and pick up older son when the bus returned to school.
My husband was at work (he works 48-72 hours at a time) so I was the one doing all the picking up.
At 9:45 when older son texts me he's near the school -- when I'm sort of grumbling to myself about how late it is -- I get in the car and head over to get him.
This is when the self-pity can worm its way in. Easy to do when driving, looking like this.
← I mean, you're focused on driving, kind of. But thinking about everything else.
(Admit it, we all do this).
Why do I have to do this?
Why can't my husband be home?
Why this and why that?
I stopped myself. Nope. Not gonna do that. Feeling sorry for myself was getting old, like, annoyingly old.
No. I would think about other things. I would think about how I was hungry.
I brought some Fritos with me and opened them.
No. Let's be really awesome here and be happy, I thought, crunching into a chip.
I should've brought coffee, was my next thought. Where was my brain? Not so awesome of me.
I wondered if my dog was doing this as I drove away. On my bed. Happy as can be.
Undoubtedly, yes.
Instead, I said to myself:
I get to do this!
I get to do things on my own and be capable and cool and unneedy.
I get to be in the car with my first born.
I get to eat chips --while wearing my slippers and listening to jazz music -- and no one is going to complain about that. Very cool.
Best of all, I get to see this face when I get him.
This post has nothing to do with writing, or books, or anything other than me being a mom.
And that's cool, too.
Yay for being a mom.
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