My coping skills have evolved over the years. Since 2005, I've come up with new and creative ways to deal with the one holiday that turns me into a living, breathing oxymoron. On the outside I appear totally FINE. While on the inside, I'm frustrated, insecure, neurotic and exhausted. Get it? (see: find the hidden acronym). That holiday is Mother's Day.
Like all good things that must come to an end, this school year is finally almost over. And oh, how things have changed from where we all began.
Have you heard of those tribes in the rainforests of Brazil that have existed centuries without any contact with modern civilization? Except for the fact that I've been vaccinated for measles and whooping cough and would look ridiculous holding a spear, other than that, I'm pretty certain we've been living parallel lives.
Last week while grocery shopping with my dad, we ran into someone my parents first met at least four decades earlier. Dad didn't remember her but, to be fair, unless you've wronged him or his family in some way, you're a stranger. His son's favorite elementary school teacher, "Sorry, not ringing a bell." The kid who pulled his daughter's hair in fourth grade, "I remember that little bastard."
As I sat in the chair of the Emergency Room, with our middle daughter hooked up to blood pressure and heart rate monitors, her nose packed in ice, I wondered if the nurse could read my mind.
Besides religion, politics and sex there's one more hot button issue that should be added to that list of taboo topics never to be discussed in mixed company. Not war. Not equal pay. Not even the latest shocking elimination on "Dancing with the Stars." Nope, it's breastfeeding. I understand that because this word actually includes part of the female anatomy some would argue it falls under the "sex" category, but trust me, it shouldn't.
We had another one of "those" mornings. When my feet hit the floor, I had no idea that the first words out of my mouth would start the day off on a very bad note. By the time "Good Morning America" came on, the guilt kicked in.
Like many of you, my husband and I pay for the lights to turn on in the house. We pay for the food in the fridge, the water that comes out of the tap, and when the heat turns on, that's us, too.
I like to think of myself as apolitical; someone that looks objectively at both sides of an issue, appreciate each perspective and be careful not to allow my personal beliefs to muddy the waters of political idealism. I also think chasing a cheeseburger with a shot of cayenne-laced wheat grass is more effective than eating right and exercising. The truth? I am a moron when it comes to politics.
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