On a cold dark night, she put her foot down

I am tired today. Have been since I awoke. Last week was long; jet-lag, dealing with the kids' jet-lag, readying our old house to go on the market, illness, prepping Jack for his camping trip, welcoming an exhausted (but happy) Jack back from his camping trip, telling Oliver about Percy, preparing to tell Jack about Percy, digging out my winter parka and sadly putting it on. 

I am tired and I have felt increasingly constricted, folding inward as if trying to shield myself from one.more.to-do. I have not read the paper, the laundry is not folded, undercurrents of rage and dismay are coursing through my veins.

Not rage at any one thing, but rage against life's relentlessness and a dismay about that fact. The rage that comes from being overtaxed and underhelped. From feeling cold. This is a familiar feeling for many. It doesn't worry me, it doesn't put me off when I see it in others. I understand. But I don't like it.

What bothers me most about these shadowy pits is that in them, I lose elasticity. I can sense the way my posture changes, the way my usually glowing face darkens as if under the shadow of a pregnant storm cloud. 

I stop feeling expansive and generous. My sense of humor goes AWOL. I want to shutter, close for the season, throw huge swaths of stuff and obligations out, and start anew tomorrow or next week, after I've burrowed in a flannel blanket and wrung the chill right out. 

I don't have anything for you tonight except these truths. That in the face of overwhelm and waves of Legos and bobos and joy and a fourth trip to the DMV and more laundry and whining and dust bunnies and freeze warnings in April, hunkering down is a very fine option. 

Refusing to help with baths or "watch me, watch me" one more time tonight and instead cooking a good meal (this one-pot chicken and sumac onion dish really is so very good; go me!) to share with Tom is how I put my foot down today. Tonight. A small action, a needed one. It starts again tomorrow.

chicken with caramelized sumac onions and israeli couscous

40 in forty: Know your limits

I have been full-on extroverting all week, and while I have felt very happy and energized, by this morning I could tell that if I didn't spend some time by myself, quiet, recharging my own batteries, I might burst. And not in a good way. There may have been tears during coffee this morning. I'm just saying. Let's call them the final Code Red warning sign.

40 in forty tip: To thine own self be true.

I rarely go biblical, but those are some true-ass words. 

People, at the end of the day, you have yourself, and if that self is a pale, wan, deflated balloon of an entity, you don't have much to work with or go on. Feel me?

I was almost obnoxiously happy yesterday, so after I dried my tears this morning I decided the next best step would be to get dressed in nice clothes so that at least my exterior would look polished at the Middle School tour for parents starting at 9. 

It was lovely to see familiar faces and catch up with friends I don't cross paths with often enough, but by the gym locker room viewing, I'd gotten the drift, had my fill, and was feeling borderline bursty.

Not that many years ago, I'd have stayed. Obligation, decorum, a sense of politeness would have prevailed. But today, I acknowledged that I've already seen what we were about to visit and so politely shook hands with the principal, thanked her profusely, and went on my way.

I ran some errands, changed clothes and high-tailed it to my yard where I ignored every beep from my phone, unearthed hairy bittercress (funny how the nemesis weed of Jack's toddlerhood is still with us), planted some bulbs, rued the depleted soil, amended it with everything I had available, visited with a neighbor and then baked Ol's birthday party cakes for tomorrow.

I was by my lonesome for a good six hours, and sister, did I need it. I am so much better for knowing my limits and needs and honoring them. Do it, y'all!

Tuesday, Tuesday

Tonight I'm feeling manageably frazzled. Like, busy but productive, tired but accomplished, overwhelmed by the children but fully amused by them. Which is a preferable state to some of the grayer days I've had of late. Those days that feel like someone shut your storm window and nailed a dirty screen in front of it for good measure. You want to see the horizon, you want to feel the fresh air, but you can't quite do either. 

I'm drinking a lovely glass of Italian red wine. The bottle is nearing the ten year mark, and the wine's woody tannins hug my tongue like a corset you willingly wear. A salad of roasted butternut squash with allspice, lentils cooked with a bay leaf, and crunchy-bitter dandelion greens stands at attention on the sidelines, waiting to be called up for dinner. It's studded with chunks of young chèvre and has yet to be dressed. I'm thinking about that and what best suits it.

Jack is reading, Ol is tucked in bed. It's early but they are still so tired from the Halloween-Daylight Savings weekend. You'd think a zombie apocalypse struck our home. I don't know why they're so sensitive and susceptible to minute time differentials, but they are. 

They have, this afternoon, vacillated between hyenic laughter and snotting tears. They adore and despise each other. They chase and pants each other and think that's both hilarious and worthy of the rack. Jack suggested that Oliver was a "premium anus." Oliver demurred but then seemed to cotton to it. 

You just never know.

I finished planting all my spring bulbs, saw some good friends, and thought about how much I'm enjoying tennis. Mostly, though, I thought about how grateful I am for the blue days on which the sun shines bright, for the strength and sense of self I've secured after years of devoted spelunking, and for the people I've encountered along the way who like that unearthed self just fine.