Wednesday, August 4, 2010

It's Probably Hormones but. . . . .

this bowl of spaghetti is making me crazy.  Ya know how there's that comparison of men are waffles and women are spaghetti?  My spaghetti is making me crazy.  I have so much to be thankful for.  I have a husband who loves me unconditionally.  Children who are healthy and wonderful, full of joy and laughter.  A home that is warm in winter and cool in the summer.  We have food in the fridge and freezer and cupboards.  My parents are alive and well.  Tim's parents are alive and well.  My grandparents are alive and well!  My sisters and brother are married to good people and have wonderful children.  I have so much.

Right this minute my oldest is teaching herself to play piano.  My youngest is sharing her paper and craft supplies with the neighbor boy.  The sun is shining outside and there's a breeze.  A box of lovely new clothes came for my girls today from my mom.  I have so much. 

Three years ago yesterday we buried my nephew Cade.  I've held his little brother Connor.  I've kissed Connor and cuddled him, changed his diaper and swooned when he smiled.  I have pictures of Connor on my computer and am loving watching him grow.  I have pictures of Cade on my computer too but I will never, on this earth get to hug him.  He will never grow.  He will never blow out birthday candles, ride a two wheeler, smart mouth his mom, smile and melt my heart or grow into a man.  I will meet him in heaven and am thankful he is not in pain, I really am.  But right now my heart hurts and I miss him. Spaghetti.

I've been an idiot with our finances.  It embarrasses me to admit it and pride makes me want to pretend everything is fine.  God is good, he provides all our needs, and I believe he will continue to.  My greatest frustration and embarrassment is my continued foolishness.  Everything is not fine at the moment.  In anger I'd like to lash out and blame Tim.  He's the man of the house, it's his responsability! He should tell me no, he should manage our finances, he should. . . . . .he should be able to trust his wife to bring him good and not harm all the days of his life.  Spaghetti.

Fall is coming, another school year.  I want so much to do an excellent job teaching our girls.  They are smart, talented, and ready to learn.  I am amazed that I have this opportunity, but I want more.  I don't want to leave our home to work.  That makes me tired.  It sucks the energy out of me.  I have in my head a picture of the lovely home, and the things we will do in it, the school we will have.  Fall scents, cinnamon scented candles, walks collecting leaves, piano lessons, guitar, art, latin, to go along with our three R's.   Spaghetti.

I am excited about implementing the Charlotte Mason philosophy of education this year purposefully.  I've been doing it accidentally up to now.  This life of learning is right for us, for the girls.  It is going to stretch me and I'm afraid.  School done school like is easier.  Workbooks, fill in the blank questions, and the such are much more orderly and preferable to me, but they are not what's best for my children.  I'm going to need to listen to my children.  I'm not good at that.  I'm going to need to be present, and part of me is terrified that I will fail in this.  The larger part of me thrills in the potential and screams YES!  This is how to do what I want to do, teach them to love learning.  This is how I can fill them with confidence in who they are as God's children and help them grow into the women he created them to be.   Spaghetti.

I'm melancholy today, I'm sure you can tell.  I'm sure it's hormone driven.  It happens about once a month and I long for the days when I do not feel a sadness and hopelessness.  I like the days when I am cheerful and energetic.  Like the summer days they make me smile.  I feel content and ready to take on whatever may come. 

Today tears are at the back of my throat and need little coaxing to come to my eyes.  A book, a sentence, a blog post, a thought and they are there.  I shove them down. I don't want to cry for me.  But I've also told myself that no matter what other people think I need to feel and let myself feel.  So I am working at letting the tears come.  I'm working on not letting them drown me and pull me down deeper.  But I suppressing them doesn't help either.  Spaghetti.

I don't even really like spaghetti.  I'd much prefer chocolate.  Wouldn't it be nice if women were like a chocolate bar?  All melted into one but able to keep things in sections a bit more with it all together underneath.  Sweet and warm, giving pleasure and contentment.  If I were a chocolate bar I'd be a Symphony bar, the one with toffee and nuts.  I can be sticky and sweet and am often slightly nutty.  Today I'd be a melted chocolate bar, but a true chocolate lover wouldn't care.  Just let it firm up a bit and it'll be fine.

Give me some time to chill and I'll be fine too, but for right now I'm a mess. ;)

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