Tag Archives: work

Climbing Mt. Motherhood– My Hillary Step

Standard
20140118-083649.jpg

A view of Mt. Everest, taken without permission from the inter webs…  didn’t look copywriten and there was no artist name…  so if this is your photo, please don’t sue.  xo!

The Hillary Step is a 40-foot wall of rock and ice at the top of Mt. Everest.  It lies in the “death zone,” the altitude above which there is not enough oxygen to sustain human life for more than a day or two.  By the time most climbers get to this point on Earth’s tallest mountain, their brains and bodies are starved for oxygen, making every step a burden.  Hypoxia can cause climbers to hallucinate, opening the door to danger, disaster, and death.

Or so I have read.

For the record, I have never been to Everest.  Nor do I climb mountains.  Ice, snow, and heights are so not my thing.  But over the past decade, I have become obsessed with stories of mountaineering, and read a dozen books on Himalayan expeditions.

What strength and hubris do climbers possess to scale a 29,000 foot mountain?  How do men and women leave their cozy homes and beloved families to put their lives into risk of dismemberment and death?  The tales of survival and rescue are grizzly, but also spellbinding and suspenseful.

I am also fascinated by the Sherpa.  This Buddhist folk has a rich and mystical culture. Without their hearty endurance for high altitude while carrying huge loads of gear and supplies, ascent of Everest would be impossible.

These stories take me out of my element to an exotic locale where I will most likely never travel.

At least not physically.

Mentally and emotionally, I think of Thursdays as my Hillary Step- my last big push before the summit of Friday, and the descent into the base camp of the weekend, where I can breathe a little easier.

Thursdays are my long day.  I kiss the kids good bye and do not see them for 11 hours.  By the time I get home, around 7:30 pm, the children are exhausted.  Both they and my husband are grumpy.  I am hungry and tired myself, but set that aside to help finish homework, nurse, read stories, and kiss good night.

I wonder what David Breashears, acclaimed mountaineer, film maker, and author of some my favorite Everest books, would say about me comparing my life as a working mom to scaling an 8,000 meter mountain?  No doubt, he would call me an “Armchair Alpinist,” or something of the like, with a haughty snort.  (Mr. Breashears, by the way, if you have googled yourself and hit on my blog, I think you are sexy as all hell and would love to shake your hand, even if you are snorting haughtily at me!)

This much I understand:  There is monumental mindfulness in mountaineering.

Climbers are totally in the present moment.  A climber puts his or her life, and the lives of anyone else on the mountain, at risk if they are not completely aware of their breath, body, and surrounding at every moment.  A misstep could trigger an avalanche or send them plummeting thousands of feet to their death.

My office is plastered with calendar pictures of Hawaii.  I have trained my brain to respond to a quick glance of these pictures of surf and palm trees with a little endorphin boost, to help me through stressful times.  Hawaii is my “happy place,” without a doubt.

But sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine myself clinging to a blue wall of ice and snow.  There is peace, silence but for the sound of my breath, raspy in my oxygen mask.  I hold on and calculate where next to plunge my axe, place my crampon.  I do so, with great deliberation, and then slide my carabiner up the fixed-rope, open my eyes, and move on to my next task.  (Yes, Mr. Breashears, in my imagination, I do climb with bottled oxygen and fixed-ropes. Mock away.)

So, no, people do not die if I happen to screw up at my job or in my home.  The only avalanche in social work is of paperwork, and at home the only thing I have resembling a crevasse is my never-ending pile of laundry.  But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t equally important for me to be mindful of each and every step.

From what I understand, there is euphoria at the top of the mountain, and joy in the art of climbing.  But this is not to say that every moment on the mountain is a joy. I’ve never read any climber write that they relished a bivouac at 27,000 feet with 100 mile per hour winds whipping around their tent, sleepless in minus 30 degree temps.

If that isn’t analogous to my journey as a parent, then I don’t know what is.

Originally posted on Momaste 1/21/13.  Sharing again at this time as a Throwback Thursday post because it just seems particularly applicable.  Thanks for reading, and I always love to hear your thoughts in the comments section!  xoxo.

Advertisements

When Mama Isn’t Happy, Nobody Is Happy

Standard

Kwan Yin with a baby

I’m stressed.

I got home late from work after a cluster fuck of a day.

Sorry I said the eff word, but there was no other way around it.

My last client had some complex and very dangerous stuff going on, and it would not have been ethical even in the best of times to say, “Gee I’m sorry but I need to get home to my own family now.  Good luck with everything you are going through.”

Like, I could have been sued for that shit.  And people could have been in serious danger.  Like life or death kind of stuff.

Sometimes it is really hard to have to put other families before my own.

It is especially hard at 5:25 pm when I was supposed to be home already and am stuck at work trying to convince someone that they actually want to make a safe choice.  And because of the nature of my work, I can’t really tell you any more than that.

So that stresses me out too.

Because I then get home and can’t really talk to anyone about what just happened and why I’m late.  Because ethics.  Always with these ethics.

I thought I had planned a super sweet dinner for the family with a rotisserie chicken and potatoes and stuffing and all that shit.

Sorry I said the ess word.  But there was even a vegetable, even though it was smothered in a cheese sauce.  And I had visions of eating ice cream on the porch after.

One big happy family.

All I really wanted was to sit down and have dinner together as a family, but apparently this is an unrealistic expectation.

My son refused to come out of his room because he just learned he has five weeks where he will be attending summer camp this summer instead of being on an eternal weekend for 10 weeks.

And my daughter has pronounced what a “bad mama” I am because I am already making three different meals tonight (leftover mac and cheese for the boy, leftover spaghetti for her, chicken dinner for me and the hubs) and I wouldn’t make fresh mac and cheese for her too.

My husband was quiet and sullen, trying to cajole the kids and me into all being nice on a path of least resistance.  I’ve tried and tried to tell him that the Path of Least Resistance is not the best way to raise children or “be” in a family, but he don’t care.

Whatever.

And deep down, I am still stressing about if someone else’s family will be safe tonight and if I did enough before leaving work.

Fuck.  It.  All.

Again, my apologies for the eff word.

Did I mention I am also in the throes of rampant and savage PMS?

Yeah.

So I’m unhappy.  And I’m disappointed, a little angry, and pretty frustrated that I can never fucking “nail” anything as a working mom.

Really, my feelings are just hurt.

So, no one else in the family is happy, because I’m not happy.

I’ve taken away TV.  And dessert.  No ice cream on the porch.

And as I stomp off to walk the dog and then change out of my work clothes, it strikes me what a monumental responsibility it is being a mom and trying to keep everyone happy while simultaneously implementing appropriate rules and consequences, and also balancing my career and setting up the coffee for the next morning.

Whatever I am feeling seems to trickle down, one way or another, onto the rest of the family.  Sometimes it feels like if I am not if super-chipper-robot-mode, then we are all fucked.

It seems really hard to have an authentic feeling without either going over the top and ruining everyone’s day, or retreating to a cave of solitude and ruining everyone’s day.

And happiness?  WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?

Most of the time I am an anxious mess trying to keep all the balls in the air, and the genuinely good moments I share with the family are few and far between and savored dearly.

In my office, I would preach emotional regulation and self care.

In my reality, if I can find the 25 minutes to write this post before I pass out in front of Netflix, then I can chalk it up to self care for the week.

Look, I realize my experience is not unique.

This is the life for which we sign up as working moms.  I don’t really think any of us could have possibly predicted what a gut busting marathon working motherhood, or just plain motherhood, truly is.  People try to tell us.  Very well-meaning people try to tell us how difficult it is, how tired we will be, and how quickly it goes by.  But no matter if we listen to them or not, we can never truly predict the reality.

It begs the question, if we had known, would we have done it?

Furthermore, what the hell are we supposed to do with this complex blend of exhaustion, frustration, anger, and confusion?  How are we supposed to express it–  how are we allowed to express it–  without upsetting the family apple cart.

Because anything we feel, the rest of the house is going to feel.

We didn’t know that either, but that’s just the way it works.

We are the emotional barometers in the home.  We set the tone and temperature for how it will be.

If we had known, would we have been crazy enough to reproduce?

It is also the path I chose when I became a clinical social worker.  And little optimist that I was, I had no fucking clue what all that meant.  It is the same path any working mom choses when they become a doctor or lawyer or supervisor or whatever where you have to put the needs of others front and center.  This was all well and good before I had kids…  but now?  It is almost unbearable.

Things fall apart.  Tantrums happen.  Doors slam and you are told what a poo poo head you are because you only have two hands.  Work spills over into home just as home spills into work.  Balls drop.  Some nights you don’t sleep.

In the end, I sort of stomped off to my corner of my room to implement a time out for myself.  It was all I could do.  I started writing this post.

And both of my kids came up to check on me.  They couched their concern in questions about other stuff, or random fun facts about their day, but I could tell that they were checking in with me, making sure I was okay, much as I check in on them and make sure they are okay.  They weren’t nervous or upset.  Their anger with me was all over and done. They were allowing me to have my feeling, but offering me a little connection, a peace offering of sorts.

I didn’t totally grasp this at the time, but later it hit me.  I’ve modeled enough emotional regulation for them–  maybe just enough—  that they get it.  They respected that I needed space, and they gave it to me, but also let me know that they were okay and present.  They knew I was upset and were modeling back for me what I have tried to model for them.

That’s kind of cool.

It sort of tempers the responsibility of keeping my shit together–  maybe just enough —  to see it reflected back to me in my kids.

So maybe I nailed that. And maybe we can all have ice cream together on the porch and be a perfect family on another night.

New Jobs Are Hard

Standard

This week I started my new job…

I love it.

I love my office.  I love my coworkers.  I love the clients.  I love the new challenges.  It’s complex.  It stretches me beyond my comfortable, familiar zone.  It’s fast paced.  There’s an employee’s only restroom with a paper towel dispenser that actually works.  I get home earlier.  I am closer to home.  All of these things, I just love.

That said, I’ve also spent a lot of time crying this week.  I’ve felt homesick, lonely, confused.

It reminds me of when I first moved into my new house–  my family was with me, I was thrilled with my cozy, little home, but I felt really sad to leave my crowded, cramped, but familiar old apartment.

I’m very confident things will be okay in the long run.

Perspective is a good thing.

I’m sitting with the sad, hard, frustrating feelings.

At my old job, I was in a good position.  I’d been there forever and had seniority, experience, and a muscle memory of how things worked.  I could go through my days with my eyes closed.

It is really challenging for me to be the new kid on the block.  I’ve taken a step backwards so that I could be more available for my family in the long run, to possibly have less stress in my life.  I am somewhere strange and new where I do not have the ability to make my body instinctively do all the things it needs to do to get through the day.

It feels like being on another planet.  It feels like being someplace totally unfamiliar and exotic and a bit scary too.  It feels like I’ve gone someplace where I am scared to drink the water or venture too far off by myself.  Every motion I make requires focus and attention.  This is not necessarily a bad thing. . .  but. . .

It takes a lot of effort.

I come home a bit fraught and exhausted.

But it will be okay.

Perspective and all. . .

What to Do With a Week?

Standard

So, I took a week off in between leaving my old job and starting my new one…

I had grand aspirations to:

  • clean the basement
  • walk the beach
  • go out to lunch with a different friend or family member each day
  • organize the house
  • read a book
  • write both fanfiction and blog posts
  • and to finish my re-watch of the X-Files in preparation for the revival.

None of that stuff really happened.

Well, I did watch a lot of X-Files…  and I spent a shit ton of time on Facebook.

I also got a dog, which as you will notice, as not an item on my already copious to-do list.

It was just one of those things that kind of happened.  She was a rescue dog from down south and her photo was circulating Facebook from a rescue organization in my state.  We went to see the dog, as a family, against my husband’s wishes.  We brought her home.

She’s a little beagle, which is not a breed I ever would have considered before.  But something about her little face, somber eyes, and tiny body roped me in.

Almost instantly, I realized I’d bit off more than I could chew.

My husband made it clear that he did not want to care for a dog, and I was basically on my own with this pet.  While he is a very compassionate man, and would never be cruel to any animal, he agreed solely to co-exist with this pup.

I had a grand plan of crate training her, so she could have a safe and happy space while I was at work. . .

Well, it turns out, our little dog has separation anxiety and wants to be literally on top of me at all times.  When I have left her in her crate, she somehow manages to escape.  In my research on beagles (which to be honest consisted of a google search and brief reading on Wikipedia and the AKC home page for beagles) I did not read that they are truly the Houdinis of the dog world.  In other words, no matter what I do, this dog somehow weasels out of the crate.

She chewed up my son’s curtains because his bed overlooks the yard, driveway and parking area and she must have been up there waiting for me to come home the other day when I’d left her to go grocery shopping and buy a dress.

My husband and son were not happy.  Not.  Happy.  At.  All.

But. . .  But!!!

I mean–  look at that sweet, little face!!!

So.  In addition to the normal run-of-the-mill neurosis I experience most days, added to the higher levels of anxiety I am experiencing due to making a huge life change in switching jobs; I am also thrashing around in waves of panic about this dog and how I am going to train her to be a nice little companion animal for my less than thrilled family.

The good points about her are that she loves to snuggle and sleep.  A lot.  Apparently beagles are fairly low maintenance in the regard that they sleep up to 18 hours a day.  And she’s only 13 pounds, so she is very easy to pick up and redirect if need be.  She is really friendly and she loves the children.  Jack is very gentle and calm with her, and Emily is just a ball of adoring enthusiasm.  She seems to be mostly housebroken, except for that time she peed in her crate our of fear/rage/frustration/anxiety when I went out to the pharmacy.

So, she has a lot of nice qualities in addition to her quirks.

I can’t help but wonder what she was sent to me to teach me.

She’s lucky she’s cute.  Very lucky.

Next week I start my new job.  I’m not nervous at all about actually going in there and doing what I am trained to do.  I think there will be a learning curve, but I think I’ll ride it out.

My anxiety is more anticipatory and related to just jumping off of a cliff on which I’d been standing for nearly 12 years, and into which I’d worn a comfortable groove for my flesh and bones.

And I’m nervous about leaving the dog alone for 8 hours at a time.  Like, what is she going to do to my house, and will my family ever talk to me again?

What the fuck was I thinking getting a dog at a time like this?  It isn’t really like me at all to make such a rash decision, or to pile another big deal on top of an already big situation.  Hopefully this little animal and I will figure it out together.

Then I guess I can get back to the other things on my to-do list.

In the mean time, if you have any suggestions for escape-artist doggies with separation anxiety who like to chew and destroy shit and gobble cat litter like it is going out of style, please feel free to comment below.  I’d love to hear any strategies you’ve found helpful.

 

Waving Goodbye

Standard

It isn’t every day I leave a job I’ve been at for well over a decade.  I took a lot of time to reflect on stuff, to feel all the feels, and to both celebrate and grieve.  My coworkers gave me a lunch and said a ton of nice stuff that made me cry both happy and sad tears.  

I came up with some thoughts about my experience and I shared them at the lunch.  I’d also like to share them with you.  Whether you are a social worker, or a mom, or just a human riding along on the human struggle bus, maybe they will resonate with you.  If nothing else, I just want to share the sentiment with you, because you are here with me and I am so happy.

Someone once told me I was precious.

Actually, she didn’t say it to me, but she said it to an entire audience as she was receiving an award for being a phenomenal social worker upon her retirement.

But I allowed myself to take it personally, and I eventually became very close and friends with the recipient of that award which in and of itself was pretty freaking precious.

Can you imagine that? You are precious. When you are on a dirty floor trying to play with a kid who is angry and defiant? When you are talking kindly to a parent who you secretly think is the most reprehensible and abusive person on the planet? When you are looking down into live, adult lice crawling around in a child’s scalp. When an overwhelmed mom forgets to change her tampon and menstruates on your office chair and you awkwardly offer her a lysol wipe.

You are precious.

It is not easy to feel precious in this job, which is often dirty, defeating, depressing, and filled with an array of malodorous messes.

It is not easy to feel precious when all you can do is show up and smile because you don’t have the power to change poverty or abuse or severe and persistent mental illness.

It isn’t easy to feel precious when you really feel overwhelmed, frustrated, and helpless. But you are. You my friends are precious. Sometimes the simple act of showing up is enough. Sometimes just being a smiling or compassionate presence in someone’s life fosters changes of which we are not even aware.

Some of you don’t know me all that well and you might be wondering why I am sharing this with you. I’m sharing this with you partly because I see how hard you work in the trenches and I’d like you to know that you are all amazing and doing great things, even when you think you are not.

I thought maybe you might like to know that you are precious too because you show up, even when you don’t want to, or when it is really hard and you feel tired and scared.

I’m also sharing this with you for some selfish reasons. I didn’t go looking for my new job. I wasn’t putting out my resume or job hunting. I had actually gotten to a pretty sweet spot here, right where I was. My program was fully staffed with a new and wonderful clinician and I felt like I had the breathing room to do some good work with my clients.

But sometimes the universe offers something too good to pass up. So, here I go. . .

I didn’t think it would be so hard to leave this city.

This city and I have not always been on the best of terms. It perpetually smells like turtle tank and it tried to crush me under tons of snow. Honestly, I’ve often felt like this city can go fuck itself. There was really nothing I learned in graduate school 15 years ago, that prepared me for some of the shit I have seen go down in this town. I don’t need to go into detail. . . I know you’ve all seen it too.

But over the past weeks, as I have terminated with a few dozen families, I’ve been really surprised at the emotions that have come up– both for myself and for my clients. I’ve been surprised and touched by the kind words of clients and colleagues alike as they have shared with me what our relationships have meant. And it has been really hard to say goodbye.

So, I’m sharing this with you because I know I what I am leaving, and I know you will take care of it in my stead as you always do.

I came here nearly 12 years ago, dewy skinned, wide eyed, and a whole lot skinnier. While I have been here, all of the big stuff that could possibly happen to a person has happened to me. I got engaged, married, and became a mom. I suffered a traumatic miscarriage, then had another baby. I bought a house. My dog of 16 years died.  I also met my best friend here– a relationship for which I will forever be grateful.

Many of you have shared in this journey with me, and have also supported me as I learned so many new roles as wife, mother, working mother, home owner.

I don’t know how to explain what it has meant to see your faces every day for so many years, especially those of you who were here from the very beginning and those of you with whom I share inside jokes about octopus, dog anxiety vests, hanging with bitches, and the healing properties of a lovely plate of eggs.

I’ve laughed, cried, freaked out, and raged with many of you. I can only pray my new colleagues will be as forgiving about my numerous quirks, strong emotions, and obsessive compulsive disorder. It is only just hitting me what it means to say good bye to you all. I’m sorry for all the times I took you for granted, but please know how special you all are to me.

And then of course, there is how this place has shaped me clinically, has taught me and forced me to grow. Growth is not always fun or comfortable. There are many moments I wish I’d met with more dignity, grace, courage, compassion, and energy. But at last I am leaving having seen my own face reflected back at me in the faces of my clients.

I think I have learned what I came here to learn.

So it’s hard to say goodbye. . . but. . .

Life goes on. It always does. It already is.

OK. Final words:

Take care of each other. Be kind. Take care of yourselves. Know you are precious. Show up. Find the joy. Those are the only things that matter, and if you get that all down, the rest will fall into place.

I love you guys.

Thank you.

Ringing in the New– In Which I Disembark the Struggle Bus and Celebrate Myself as I Really Am

Standard

IMG_7375

A funny thing happened after I gave my notice of resignation at the place where I worked for over a decade.

I started hearing things like, What is this place going to do without you?  You’re a rock here; I can’t believe you’re leaving!  You’ll be so missed.  How will your program run without you? You’ve made sizable contributions to this agency.  I’m sad to see you leave.    

People expressed heartfelt respect, admiration, and affection for me and for the work I’d done for the community.  While people were happy for me, some expressed fear, worry and some even cried.  The reactions of my clients was very similar to that of my coworkers.

It was surprising to me, and initially was difficult for me to accept the kind words.  I thought maybe people were just being nice, or maybe they were just flattering me.  The compliments felt awkward for me to hear, and it took me a few days to realize they were utterly gracious and genuine.

I’d never felt that way about myself in that job.

I’d felt overworked, stressed, frustrated, burnt-out, and traumatized.

I’d never felt valued or like I was doing much more than showing up day after day.  It was really hard to see any change in the clients with whom I worked, so deep was their trauma, poverty, and despair.

The vicarious trauma of over a decade of riding this struggle bus to and from work took its toll on me emotionally and physically.  But I continued to show up.

Sometimes showing up is about all you can do.

It makes me think of Super Grover from Sesame Street, who’s motto is “I show up.”

It is hard to celebrate that just showing up is a worthwhile endeavor.

It also can be hard to see ourselves and appreciate ourselves as others do, to appreciate our strengths and not focus on all our short-comings.

While my new job will be in the same field, it will have a lot less focus on poverty and trauma.  Working with a high-risk population is a very worth endeavor, however it can deplete our resources quicker than we can replenish them, even while attempting to practice the best self care.

For a long time, I beat myself up for not being able to hack it as well as I wanted in this field.  I blamed myself for not being strong enough or good enough to balance everything.  Looking at things from a different angle now, I see it wasn’t me at all.  It was the job.

I did my best.

Accepting a new position at a new agency isn’t just the start of a new job.  It is changing my life.

I’ll be working less hours with less stress.  I’ll have more time to focus on taking care of myself and my family.  I’ll also have more energy for honing my clinical skills as opposed to the constant fire fighting of chronic crisis work.

I’m already feeling a difference in the lightness of my spirit.  I’ve been more present with my family as my psychic space has opened up.

I have a couple more weeks before I start my new job.  They will not be particularly easy, as I say good bye to a lot of people for whom I really care.  But as I complete this circle in a loop of my journey, I will be able to accept people’s kind words about me and know they are true and deserved.

Chasing Anger With Self Recrimination. . . and Then More Anger

Standard

  
Yesterday I ranted about frustration with my husband.  He had allowed our daughter to do something after I said she couldn’t.

I stayed good and pissed for the better part of the morning, but I actually felt better after posting and hearing back from you all who left generous and supportive comments.

While surfing Facebook, I happened across a post from a dear friend who was reflecting on how she never deals low blows with her spouse, and how she thanks her family for this because her mother and father taught her how to fight fair.  It had nothing to do with me or my situation, but because all my stupid sensitive senses were on high alert, I took it as a personal affront.  I am a bad person because I can’t be more mature when I bicker with my Spouse.

I am setting a crappy example for my children who are going to grow up completely screwed up because mommy and daddy fought.  My children are anxious, uncooperative, and angry because I suck at adulting.

 I.  Am.  A.  Failure.  With a capital “F”.


I held onto these feelings until I was distracted by other things.

Like:

Last night, I ended up working late.  It is a rarity.  My schedule is fairly set in stone because I usually need to be someplace either at the beginning or end of the day with my children.  

But a teen in the community had completed suicide and we were opening the doors at our center to support the community.   I agreed to stay a couple hours later than usual to be on stand by. It ended up being a very quiet few hours, which was fine.  I got a lot of other stuff done, then I went home.

At home I was deciding how I wanted to play things with Spouse.  He had bathed Emily, but he had allowed Jack to go out past his 7pm curfew to play with his bud.  I was tired and hungry, but Emily seemed sleepy so I figured bedtime would be a breeze and then I could microwave some frozen rectangle of food and get my couch and Masterchef on.  Chill.  Decompress.  Ponder the meaning of life and how gut twistingly terrible it is when a teen takes their life.

Then he disappeared.  

As I was putting my daughter to bed, the Spouse just took off to parts unknown.  Emily would not settle because she wanted her dad to hug her goodnight and he was no where in the house or yard.  I still had not eaten dinner and was starting to spiral out into anger once again.  

At 8:45 Em still would not settle and I still had not eaten. He wasn’t picking up his phone so I sent a ragey text.

Apparently, he had gone down the street to watch a ball game at the fields with our son and the neighbors.  This seemed reasonable to him, and it seemed reasonable that I would telepathically know where the fuck he was even though he’d not mentioned a word of it to me.  Well, where else would I be?  He asked like he goes down to watch ballgames at the fields down the street all the time. (He never has.)

I really lost it.  He and Jack came trundling home.  I screamed.  I ranted.  I raved.

I called him a Doofus.  In front of the kids, no less.

So much for fighting fair.

Now I’m back to being a failure and crappy mom and wife.  And I’m still angry.  So, there’s that. . .

I stormed off while he put both children to bed.  I read the last two chapters of Gone Girl.  I watched Masterchef.  I stressed about if I was really angry because I am a crazy bitch with raging hormones, or if my feelings were based anywhere in reality.  I went to bed fuming and woke up still fuming.

My behavior was not cool.  Not.  Cool.  I get that.

But in all fairness, disappearing on a weeknight at bedtime is not cool either.

I wasn’t angry that he went to watch the game. I’m not “that girl.”

I was angry he didn’t tell me where the fuck he was going.  Because I am not a fucking mind reader.  All of that could have been avoided by him telling me what was going on.

This morning I’m in a vapid brain space.  But I look amazing. I’m wearing a new dress that I bought with birthday money.  It has this splashy pink and navy blue flower pattern on it and the cut is very flattering.  I’ve had my coffee.  The kids are fresh and clean.  Lunches are packed and we are ready to face our day.

I think the Spouse knows he is in the dog house because he cleaned up the whole kitchen after the children had breakfast, which is usually my chore.  

We have a long holiday weekend ahead of us and somehow will have to get on the same page.