If you called me today, I would in fact talk your ear off. You would not get a word in edgewise and I would be out of breath from talking so much and for so long that I would forget to breathe. I would totally manipulate the conversation to center around me, and while I did it I wouldn't realize it or consider your feelings. I'm pretty sure that's why I'm here writing this blog, instead of making phone calls. No one really likes a conversation hog, they just tolerate them.
I would tell you that work has been the easy part. Going to work, training, learning the ropes. That has been the easy part. The getting to work, the getting the kids to school part, the scheduling and rescheduling of child care parts. Those parts have been the most challenging these last three weeks. My girls are still having some residual separation anxiety about work. They are not used to mom leaving the house at five at night to go to work. That's usually dinner time, or tv time, or fast food time. They didn't really know what to make of mom leaving the house on Saturday to go to work either, or when I worked last Sunday. We are still easing into this work/home/school life.
I'd tell you that we met with Caitlin's teacher, the school psychologist, and the Vice Principal this morning. Because the morning meltdowns are getting worse. The separation anxiety that she has been suffering with since before Thanksgiving are morphing into something entirely different. They gave us great ideas about setting up action plans and putting them in place for school drop off and pick up. How to handle the bumps in the road that seem minor to us, but are on a larger scale horrifying for Caitlin. At seven forty five this morning I was sitting in a chair made for a first grader, tearfully taking notes, and starring items I had written in an attempt to make her life a little easier. A little less fearful, a little less anxious. I've been at a loss to help her, and I can't really handle watching her cry into her pancake syrup every morning.
We'd talk about the blog post that was supposed to go live this morning. The one detailing all my feelings on the issues we have been having with Caitlin. Again, a post about the good, the bad, and the sometimes ugly. I'd tell you how I put everything I had into it at eleven thirty last night, after working the closing shift. How I just had to write to get it out, to wrap my head around the fear of having a meeting with the school psychologist. Then I would tell you that the Hubbs asked me to wait. Asked me to hold off on publishing. And how I blew up, and was angry, because writing it out is what I do. It's how I cope. I'd tell you that I was angry and felt a little betrayed that he things that I share too much sometimes. And while I still feel a little sting that I was censored, I feel like I did the right thing to respect his request. How much is too much for him? Sometimes I don't even bother to ask. The post will get published, but by waiting it will take on a new form. It will grow into something more meaningful, something more put together. Because last night I just wrote freely. And sometimes that can be a little more than I bargained for too.
If you were still on the line I'd tell you that I noticed a roll over my leggings this morning. And that the last three months of eating baked Paleo goods and not working out has caught up with me. I'd tell you that I'm wearing those damn leggings anyway, even if I do look fat, and you'd tell me to shut my skinny ass up because I don't look a pound over 110. And I'd tell you that I'm 115 and to shut your trap and then you'd call me a skinny bitch and tell me to put in the damn Jillian DVD if it makes me feel better. Or to bake more Paleo cupcakes because that works too.
Then I'd tell you that I have broken not one, but two new year's resolutions. And you would ask which ones, even though you have already told me resolutions are for overachievers. I'd tell you that I have yet to respond to comments on this blog made on posts last week. Something that I did not want to get behind in the new year. I'd tell you that I can't ever decide if commenting on the blog is best or via email. And you'd say that you don't even know that that language is about. Then I'd tell you that I have old lady zits because I am failing to get my lazy ass to wash my face at night. And you'd tell me that wearing make up to bed ages me like 20 years a night and scare me into washing my face for about a week consistently until I start sleeping in my make up again. Because we both know that's exactly what's going to happen.
I'd also admit that I miss this space terribly. I miss writing as a whole. I've been having a hard time fitting it all in. I'd tell you that I have about three projects going at once, not a single one fully researched or well thought out. I'd tell you that I have started reading four books since January first and have yet to finish a single one. Which makes me sad, and says a little about my reading choices. I'd tell you that my mind is constantly writing things, but when I finally get to the screen, it's all gone. Poof. And then I pretty much give up paralyzed by my own self inflicted writers block.
And if you were still there, with your mouth agape I'm sure, I'd apologize for unloading all this life on you and thank you for loving me anyway. Thank you for always picking up my call, always saying the right thing. Then I'd finally ask you how your day was, and as you told me, I'd finally be able to relax knowing I'm not the only one with a life as full as this.