Diagnosis: A Serious Case of the Lazies

I don't know enough about The Simpsons
to know why, or if, this image is
related to my topic, but I believe it is.
Thanks to my neighbor, Jenny,
and April showers, for the photo op.

The symptoms started Friday, July 12, a full three days ago. An extreme desire to do nothing. Complete boredom with everything. Utter disinterest in accomplishing much.

I chalked it up to the birthday blues. Now, I like birthdays. They beat the alternative, right? Just ask anyone who's been denied. But let's face it, turning 45 was nothing for me like turning 40. At 40, I had all those miraculous pregnancy hormones ricocheting through my body, thinking it was 25 again. Today, I'm facing life as a mom with a very 45-year-old body but a very energetic 4-year-old (not to mention a demanding 6-year-old and prepubescent 11-year-old).

So Friday I coasted. I figured, it was my birthday; I'll be lazy if I want to. But then Saturday and Sunday, and now, Monday, rolled through, and I still didn't feel like facing the daunting projects before me.

Everything we stored in our unfinished basement sits in my dining room, living room and garage, begging to get sorted, cleaned, given away, sold or re-stored when our basement renovation is complete. All three children and sometimes one husband expects to be fed, again and again and again. Letters to a friend studying in Bolivia should be written and mailed. Phone calls, texts, emails should be returned. Baby showers and block parties demand to be planned. Fall PTO projects beg to get jump-started. And then there's the idea of generating income from actual work I could be getting paid to do, if only I'd make the time.

But I want to do none of it right now. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the birthday. I'm getting done what needs to get done, but not much more. I'm calling in 'sick' on everything else with a serious case of the lazies. I sure hope it's just a 96-hour bug, because I'm not a fan of lazy. Ask my kids.

Cheers, friends!

Destruction Junction

I love destroying stuff. I love how a hammer swinging in my hand and the resulting impact it makes upon a deserving piece of matter feels.

So I consider our recent decision to renovate our basement from "unfinished" to "completely and absolutely and without question unfinished" a bit of a rainbow after a series of storms. (Ha ha ... neighbors know what I'm talking about!)

Recently borrowed from my good friend and lawyer, who is also middle guy's Godfather, are a sledgehammer and crowbar, called by my alley neighbor, an accountant by trade, a "persuader." Imagine what Scott Turow could do with all that. 

I know that my job today while Kevin was out of town was to finish emptying the basement of all our stored (and now that I see them spread all around my dining room, back patio, garage and delivered and donated to the Maryville Crisis Nursery's resale shop) mostly unnecessary belongings.

But I had this newly acquired sledgehammer and crowbar. And it's been a long time since I've purposely destroyed something. (Surely I'm destroying one child or another's self-esteem or confidence on a regular basis, but we won't know for sure until they complete their therapy when they're adults, right?)

I bribed myself. Finish emptying these four shelving units, drag them out to the garbage ... then you can know what a crowbar wedged between wall and floorboard feels like, what a sledgehammer swung at older-than-dirt drywall sounds like.

Sweet. It feels and sounds sweet. 

A Confession and a Promise

This starts like a confession: Dear Readers, it's been seven months since I last blogged. During this time, I've often thought about blogging. I've missed blogging. I've often blogged in my head, while running or driving or trying to fall asleep. It's not that I didn't want to blog. It's just that often my blog thoughts were not good thoughts. They weren't wicked or anything. They just weren't that positive or uplifting, and I really try not to be a complainer or whiner (at least in the blogosphere). After all, my life is pretty awesome despite the chaos that I work on loving. A bowl of cherries, if you will.

But seven months have passed. It's been a busy seven months, but that's no excuse to not do something that you enjoy and proves to be a healthy way to relieve stress.

So I'm back. Heck, my 11-year-old son is blogging now, and he's taught me something in his writing. It's not the number of words that count, it's the message. Shorter is often better.

So, I'm making my promise to myself official right here, right now. I'll write at least once a week. I guess that's my penance. I hope you missed me; I missed you.