LB started asking when she was going over to daddy’s house at about 8 am, Friday morning. I wanted to spend the day with her, but Roofie called later than morning and asked if she could come over early as well. With LB jumping up and down in the background, I couldn’t make myself say no to either of them. I sucked it up and drove my child to where she really wanted to be.
I sat in my car by the side of the road after dropping LB off. Blondie was pregnantly cordial to me, asking what my daughter would like in her lunch on monday. I think about our encounters which were typical one year ago, and I know things have improved. I still felt vacant somehow. As much pain, hatred and stress that were present during the holiday season of 2008, I still felt like the safe, cozy haven to my daughter. I was the rock in the raging waters around us.
Now what am I? I’m the transporter to her daddy, her “sisters” and her other life that has become routine. I’m the witness to her mood changing from excitement, eagerness and joy on Friday to nervousness, frustration & exhaustion on Monday. I’m the person who explains to strangers why my 3-year-old calls me by my first name. I’m the mom who gets parenting literature from doctors, teachers and grandmothers, saying “I think you should really read this. It may help.”
I wanted to go home and curl up on the couch for the rest of the weekend. Instead, I went to the gym and picked up a basketball. I shot hoops for the first time since college ended for me in 2004. Feeling the bumpy skin of the ball on my fingers was like stepping into an old pair of jeans. It was comforting, it felt good in a surprisingly familiar way. I didn’t expect to experience as much pleasure on the court as I did for those 45 minutes.
I was so high on endorphins after shooting around, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to go home to my sad little dwelling, where I am so content to mope away my free time. I need to stop going there. I need to prevent myself from oozing into complacent goo when I feel down.
I’m on page 30 of my screenplay. 25% finished 🙂 Take that, complacent goo pisceshanna.