Give me a break!

And it was going so well...

At last post, I had time to write. And write I did. And researched. Sunny stayed with me today, but I slept, and good, too. Six solid hours of sleep. Nice sleep.

I bounced out of bed and ran to change. I needed to get my final paycheck from D. I even applied makeup for the event! But it takes a while for the kids to get with the program.

Sunny was home, but wanted a shower. No prob. Dude came in, but wanted to play outside until Junior got home. They both wanted a snack about the time Sunny left the shower, and I was on a time crunch, not too bad, but, you know.

I shut out that little nagging voice in the back of my mind that said D would mail my check even though she hasn't for the last six years. I told Sunny and Dude to round up their change (they've accumulated plenty and are having money-carrying issues) so we could cash that in after I got my last paycheck from D. We piled in the van, some louder than others, given all the jingling and metal-on-metal clinks from the backseat.

So, this is the plan:
1. Go to D's.

Done, and cordially so. I handed her pedal and software to her in person, she handed me my check. I petted her dog, thanked her for the experience and left with a smile.

2. Go to bank, deposit check, and make change into bills.
3. Go to my mother's so I can see the sister who's back in town but I haven't seen yet.
4. Take pictures.

Good plan. Except...

Mom scheduled an appointment for all three of them on the other side of the river. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay on the other side of the river.

Scratch 3 and 4. While I conversed about scratching #3 and #4, the time ticked to 4:37 p.m. I hopped out of the car, change-jingling kiddos in tow, and pulled on the door to the bank.

Locked.

I looked up inside. "Lobby hours: 8:30 to 4:30."

Not a total loss. We got back in the car, the kids razzing me about how my phone call put us behind, and I went through the drive through to the window right at the bank's wall. They don't have a chute to send, just a push-out window, so I figured they might convert some change for me.

"Sure!" the girl said.

Her supervisor shook her head, "No."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I can't do that. But you can go to the other branch downtown. They have a walk-up."

Ooooooooooh, a walk-up. At first, I thought she said wall cup. I couldn't quite put my brain waves around that one until I thought about the physical appearance of the other branch. Oh. Window. Walk-up. Walk up to the window.

Fifteen minutes later, we walked up to the walk-up window at the other bank. We rang the buzzer, and the gentleman appeared.

"I have some change to convert. Not a lot, probably five bucks or so..."

"The coin bags are already processed," he informed me. "Come back when the lobby's open."

Right. Another bust. And are my kids grateful for me even trying?

No! They're still blaming me for trying to get plans straight on the phone.

Truce? Truce. Library.

Good deal. Junior needs his card renewed. Sunny has three books she wants. Dude wants to look at the stats in the reference library.

Happy, happy, joy, joy. We are all so...

"Mom, they moved the books. I don't know where to find the stats!"

"I don't see those books on the shelves, Mom. Where are they?"

"I really don't want to renew my card. You'll just make me listen to those stupid books on tape until my cast comes off."

I went on the card catalog computer and found Sunny's three books. Thirty books available all told, and none at our branch. We ordered them at the desk. Somewhere, we lost Dude, but we just asked where they moved the reference library.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig, right? Yup. After a stop for ice, milk, soda, and smokes. Sunny tells me to drive faster. Her empty stomach wants filled!

Okay, home. Disappointed kids, no auntie, no grandma, lotsa change. Got it.

Preheat oven. Explain to Stud why kids are mad at me. Go into my office to check on work. Two frozen pizzas in the oven. Play e-mail ping pong on a professional and personal level (how to encourage out-of-home activity for widowed mothers, and I received very sound advice). Made sure everyone got pizza. I sat down to work. I eventually got a slice of pizza for myself. I'm not too big on pizza.

I arranged my templates. Then...I asked "the question."

"Who's got homework?"

It's 6:30 now, okay? Nobody answers me but Dude, and he's wandering all over the house. He knows as long as he's in the room once in a while, my mind thinks he's doing something.

An hour passed. I downloaded rheumatology.

"Dude? How's the homework coming?"

"Oh, I need your help."

"I do, too!" Junior makes known. "I have lots of stuff, and I can't write!"

Okay. Explain how to make percentages out of fractions to Dude, have Junior look at the first of five short stories where he has to list 5 main points. Make sure Dude understands the concept, and work on #2/5 short stories. Then Dude had a bit of science, and we worked on #3/5. Then Dude had his spelling packet; he's now on his own, and we completed #4/5. Then #5/5.

Then...CIVICS! Oh yay us! Fifty definitions to write.

Of course, it's on supply/demand/sole proprietors/partnerships, things I know about. Also, I know lots about entrepreneurs in general, because I am one. So is Stud. Junior's not always the best at grasping concepts, not because he's not smart enough, but because he'd rather write them down and go do something else. This time, he had no choice but have them described by me. All 50 definitions.

So, at 9:30, when I wandered to the bathroom and back through the laundry room to get back to work, Stud's in the laundry room, throwing - I mean, really throwing - things into the dryer.

"Nobody ‛round here does fuckin' nuthin'" he said.

I looked at him.

"I'm not everybody's bitch, you know."

I walked off.

Yeah, I don't do jack shit around here. Considering the last moment I had to myself was right before bed this morning, you know I do absolutely nothing. Those groceries magically get in the fridge, freezers, and cupboards. Somehow, last night, some laundry got hung up and, oh my god, he missed that I did one because it got washed AND put away.

I don't do jack shit. You smokin' those ciggies, bud? You know who bought those?

Shit, fuzzy fuck. But, you know? That only required a couple of Tums. D would've taken an entire Prilosec.

Let the time roll in faster. I'm tired. I intend to sleep, and dream, of whatever.

Oh, yeah - I'm still floating!

Freedom comes in moments.

We are the land of the free. I was born free and have always been. That's amazing and wonderful and I'm grateful for it, I truly am, but...

Those moments of complete liberty? Those are what make you ALIVE.

I'm talking about standing on the beach at sunrise. I'm referring to a cat who doesn't like anyone suddenly taking to your lap while you're sitting in a house, visiting. It's laughing until your sides hurt and you snort. Then, you snort more, because everyone's laughing with you and at you.

I've been having a lot more of these moments since quitting for D. I don't have this constant cloud of "Shit, she might fire me if I don't do this file first. Wait. This one's older, but this doc's pickier about how fast his stuff gets done." I put a lot of thought into what I do. I always have. She just always made sure to confuddle me by nitpicking.

My first D-free weekend in 7 years consisted of a LOT of free time, and the replacement income and regular income plus a little extra at the new company. I have only one IC client, and they got finished, too. I spent the rest of the night...

WRITING.

That, in itself, is freedom. My mind is awash with activity, and so much of it's positive that it's stunning. I think everyone sees a difference. Remember, Junior busted his hand and is limited in what chores he can do, so Stud said, "I want five hands in here now!" and I bust a gut. Rolled. The kids thought I was nuts, but it was so goddamn funny. He could've said, "Three kids!" but, no, it was "five hands."

You might've had to be there. Or maybe, just maybe...I'm free enough to find humor in the little things.

You see, I'm a perfectionist. I'm so good at being a perfectionist that, if I don't think I'll do well at something, I won't even try. See, I made a word up above, "confuddle," and I feel the need to explain it! It's a Vennum word. It conveys, but god forbid you look at this blog and think I don't know something. Shit! I'm horrible. Being a perfectionist also means that I can't let myself churn out substandard work, which is why D being so antagonistic made me cringe for so long, and I really think that, in addition to loyalty, I held onto the position because I needed to prove her wrong. I was qualified. I was good. I am good. I KNOW these things, but I'm also insecure, which perfectionists also are.

I'm happy. I've been more awake when I am awake. I'm sleeping about the same, here and there, but it's nice, deep sleep - with dreams! I like dreams, even if they're morose or scary. They mean I'm working out some issues, so I suspect that my dog will be lame in a few more, or my house will have the flooring ripped up and I step on nails, or I see my father a few more times. I vent here; my dreams use other measures.

So, it's time to wake the ninos. One's up. One's about to be dragged off the bed in a flurry of pleases and wake ups! The last one--she's sleeping in. The toilet was her friend last night--and mine. Glad she had some warning, or I would've added to a pile somewhere.

Vaya con Dios.

I actually think I mean that.