On Tuesday I was inspired by all things romantic and Valentine’s Day to write a super sweet post for today. I was so inspired that I even started it. But then something happened, namely Wednesday and Thursday. So you’ll have to come back on Monday if you want to read the softer side of me. Because right now I’m pissed off. Royally pissed off, full Mama-bear mode with a side of oh-so-tired of this bull crap.
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If you read this blog much, you might be wondering just what the heck is up with all these dang-blame “time” posts. You might be worried I’ve got myself caught up in some timey-whimey-wibbly-wobbly time-space continum of doom and cannot for the life of myself un-time-stick myself.
You’d be right.
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Somewhere this week or so marks the 8th anniversary of my starting my last semester of teaching. That occurred to me today as I stood too long in the shower, trying to make sense of my day. Eight years. The passing of those years has witnessed changes in my body, family configuration, hair color, skin tone and psyche. Time has passed. But one thing among many has remained constant: the reason I left a career that spoke so loudly to my head and heart that I was always a teacher whether I was in my classroom or not. I left teaching because I was at my breaking point.
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As I stood in my kitchen this morning, up to the elbows in fondant, one thought grabbed me and attempted to shake a wee bit of sense into my head. “Why the hell do I do these things to myself?” Who in their right mind always has to prove themselves worthy, over and over and over? Oh yeah, me. I know that this compulsion of mine stems from my relationship with my dad and yet its really all about me. Not him, me. You know how folks use “it’s complicated” to explain their relationships? Yeah, that’s me and my dad. I love him, really I do. Or I should say I love the bits and pieces of moments of my life that connect with him at his best. That Dad, at those moments? I love him to pieces. All those other bits and pieces though, those times when he was harsh and judgmental and never proud of me, they sometimes feel as if they just might end up killing me bit by bit.
So there I am, mixing up my first batch of fondant ever and this image of footsteps in the snow suddenly fills my mind’s eye. It is a white dough in a white bowl, sprinkled with white confectioner’s sugar. All that white, looking like snow.
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I’m sitting here with a mimosa slushy and thinking about things. I’ll be the first to admit that the mimosa is probably adding to my tendency to pontificate on the inane, but whatever. They are mind-enhancing things, these mimosa slushies. However, the basis of my heavy thinking is caused more by this time of year I often feel is more the “Time of Giving and Getting” than “Christmas”.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am a fan of giving and getting. Not all things, mind you. The flu, gonorrhea, being audited, headaches…the list of things I don’t want to get is plenty long. But in the context of holidays and celebrations, I’m all for it. Not to excess or as a means to “buy” someone’s affections, but I can get into presents just as much as the next hedonist/capitalist/coveter of stuff. And I love that my kids, especially Biggest is a really good gift giver. But there is a whole aspect to gift giving that makes me break-out into one of those ladylike sheens and worry.
What if they don’t like it?
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