I'm back to my old tricks. Back in school--again--with nursing as a goal--again. Taking Math 110--again. Worried about a certain child of mine--again.
I find myself in this cyclical life, "Groundhog Day" without the laughs. Every week is a repeat of the last, but with greater intensity and urgency. Three days a week the kids do martial arts, two nights a week I go to class, every night I do homework for three or more hours, every day I work nearly 7 hours at my paid job, every night I work at my unpaid job. As any mom knows, the unpaid stuff is the most important, and it's getting the least attention at the moment. Sad kids (one in particular) that would love to talk but I don't have time. I kiss their heads on my way out the door and try to get up enough energy to cook them dinner before bedtime.
I want to say that I'm doing all of this for them. Partly I am. I don't want to show up on their doorsteps with my bags in hand and try to explain why Mommy couldn't get her act together and be self-supporting in her 70s and 80s. I do worry about that, I'm not going to lie, but mostly it's for me. I'm terrified of being poor. I know, blessed are the poor and all that, but there is no glory at all in being old and poor. None. I've seen it up close and personal, and I will move heaven and earth before I end up like that. So I'm pursuing a career that I can work at until I physically can't work anymore, and hope that's enough.
My trade-off for this ambition, misplaced as it may be, is that I'm living a life I never imagined. Everything about it is shabby. I look like death, with dark circles under my eyes on top of all the other flaws. My clothes are Wal Mart special, and I wear the same stupid pair of jeans every day until one morning they will wear out and I'll head back out to the Evil Empire and buy another pair for under $20. My house is a wreck, there are holes in the furniture, my children are DVD/internet addicts, and spiders are building webs in the corners. My mother is coming this week, and I know she'll be so sad for me, which I can't handle. I'm the toughest person I know, apart from her, and the last thing I need is pity, thank you very much. But isn't that what I'm asking for? Pity would cover a multitude of sins. Oh, poor thing. She just can't do it all, can she? That's not who I want to be. I do want to do it all. Every last bit of it, and better than 'well'.
My mom wants to know what she can do to help. What do I tell her? Please iron these shirts? The fridge is a little scary. The pantry needs to be organized. The walls are a forensic scientist's dream-come-true. It's not the obvious things I need help with. It's this internal struggle that I've faced since I was first conscious of it. I want this "life" that I grew up with, that I was conditioned to want. It's a beautiful picture, and I've lived it as a reality. But for the life of me I can't create it. The 'how' of it all eludes me. It's a secret code I haven't yet cracked, that illiterate women for centuries have been able to figure out. But I can't give up the picture. This happy family sitting down to dinner when it's still light outside, with money in the bank and smiles on the kids' faces. Children who know they are loved and are well on their way to creating their own beautiful lives. Okay, my kids do know they're loved, but the rest of the picture is out of focus with curled edges. My children suffer. My marriage suffers, and I feel lost.
So I keep working at everything that won't fix the problem. Because I already have a degree, and we both have jobs, and we're both artistic enough that we are capable of creating beauty. So in desperation I'm doing what I know how to do. Work harder. Sleep less. Worry more. Run faster.
What would really fix it? That's what I want my mom to help me with, because she figured it out decades ago.
