I can’t take it. It seems like the entire world is finished with school or finishing today and my poor, sad children have another week.
Did I say poor, sad children? I meant, poor sad me because I’m done with it all. The idea of packing more lunches every morning and digging through dirty backpacks every afternoon makes me terribly cranky. Dirty, worn backpacks stuffed with a year’s worth of crap being sent home daily in equally small portions. “Look, here’s the project I did last fall on metamorphosis. It’s 700 pages! And here’s a 3-D soap sculpture of Clara Barton.” I save some of it, but the vast majority gets tossed. Which I feel bad about. But I don’t lose sleep because I’m so damned tired.
The stress of these last few weeks isn’t helped at all by my poorly-timed PTO responsibilities. My neighbor and I are the only two
suckers volunteers on a committee that “publishes” sweet little books for students. Crafting the books involves cutting fabric, manipulating cardboard, ironing. I don’t iron well or safely.
Because we all get behind (listen, I know how it is) a whole bunch of teachers submit a whole bunch of stories at the very end of the year. Lately, if I’m not eating, sleeping, changing a diaper or writing this blog, I’m putting together an entire class worth of homemade books. One upside to this commitment? Reading the creative musings of elementary school students is pure entertainment. It’s fascinating what children choose to write about. My children included. Edy’s poetry book is exceptionally quirky.
Then there are the overlapping activities that combine with the school craziness to push my tiny bit of tolerance off a greater, crazier cliff. Softball and pre-season training for summer swimming. Every afternoon. And Lu still has homework every night. And studies show they need to eat dinner. There just aren’t enough hours.
So I’ve got iron burns on my hand. A dining room table covered in papers, tests and projects. Dusty cleats and musty swim bags. Enough!
Have you ever felt completely over something. Finished, done, ready to move on without looking back?
Yes. My answer is yes.
When I was done swimming, I was done.
I grew up swimming. I was on the summer swim team when I was four and soon started swimming year round. My high school team was ultra competitive and I planned to swim in college. Just as training started, one month into freshman year, my mom died. I took some time away from college and when I returned, the coach urged me to get back in the pool. It would help me cope. But I was done. Completely and entirely done. 100%. He wasn’t happy, but I was sure. Good-bye subtle scent of chlorine that followed me everywhere. I would discover fun-er and less exhausting ways to get blood shot eyes.
When I gave birth to Bea, I was done.
When I see pregnant women, there is no envy. There is no yearning. There is no sadness. I am so glad to be done having children. So happy. So over it. I am excited for the next generation of my family to crank out the next generation (wow, that makes me feel very old) and I will love the experience through them, but I will not want to be them. No, no, no. Pregnancy-induced heartburn is no joke.
When I’m done running, I’m done.
Running fits in this category. Sort of. When I head out on a run, my brain adjusts to the length I plan go and when I finish, it always feels like I couldn’t run another step. The beginning of every run is tough, the middle is nice and even, then the end is always a struggle. After two or ten miles. It’s all about anticipation. A perfect metaphor for most journeys.
That’s all I’ve got for today. I’m done.