[Including, but not limited to, a son who will be graduating from high school in three short weeks]
I appear to be at a point in my life where either I blog it all or not at all. I was surprised to click over here yesterday and see that I haven’t posted anything since the start of May. “How can this be?” I asked myself, “When life is full full full and there’s so much to share?”
|This was a joke. We left it laying around for him to find.|
That’s exactly how it came to be.
Life is very full. You get this.
Two things: first, I’ve gone ahead and let you know “Joe’s” real name. Why not? He’s nearly 18 and can handle it, I think.
Second, I am a mom who needs to be in the picture.
The three fancy pix are from spring formal, which took place two weeks ago on a river boat. The costumed pix are from this weekend, whereupon John Michael was Edward in Sense & Sensibility and I was the woman in third row with a camera.
(Except for that last picture, whereupon I was–who? A Napoleon Bonaparte wannabe?)
(I crown myself empress! Ruler of home and van!)
And then there are these two:
Jem, (not his real name), will be stepping up to the plate when John Michael leaves. He will do well in the role of oldest son-at-home because he’s an overprotective sheepdog. “Is anyone going to get the baby?” he demanded one night, as Francis screamed angrily from his crib and my husband and I snuggled on our bed, oblivious.
“Why? Is he crying?” my husband replied, one arm curled loosely around my shoulder.
Jem stomped off (also angrily) and eventually I retrieved the two-year-old, who’d been banished–it’s true–for having a wrong-flavor-toothpaste meltdown. When I told Jem why his little brother had been screaming, he looked at Francis and remarked, “You’re spoiled.”
Which is as it should be, I guess. He’s the baby.
(*I* was the baby. I get the temperament.)
He did get a cute little haircut, though!
Now he looks like Hayley Mills.
Being the bipolar mom of double bookend boys, I can never ever decide what I want. For example, my 5-year-old talks nonstop and my 15-year-old doesn’t talk enough. Which is better? Which is worse?
The 17-year-old spends too much time on his phone and the two-year-old, too much time on me.
In terms of what I do NOT want, the skirt pulling’s way up there.
So yeah, bottom line: I’d love to be writing about my life every day, but most days I’m too busy living it. I scrubbed the kitchen floor yesterday for the first time in I’mnotgoingtosay, and this made me ridiculously happy. A clean kitchen makes me happy period, (this in addition to my happy pills), so this is an area of focus that needs to be high on my list.
The worrying needs to go away. The oldest son will leave and go to college. The clingy toddler will grow up and not need me so much.
It’s okay. It’ll be okay.
Last night was the closing performance of the play, and after striking the set and grabbing McDonalds, my son came home with a couple of friends. They were just going to bed when I left for my holy hour at three-thirty, but we got to visit a bit about the play. Nice, nice kids.
Later, I woke to the sound of the blender and the smell of fried eggs. The boys were sitting around the table, sipping smoothies and laughing and talking about finals.
“How was your holy hour?” one of them asked.
It was good. Life is good.
God’s got this. It will be okay.