I don’t feel like writing about my kids. I don’t feel like writing about any crazy antics from my past. And I really don’t feel like writing about motherhood, mostly because we have been having a fantastic week, and I tend to want to write about the kids or motherhood when I start to feel like slitting my wrists would be a good idea. I like my wrists today, though. They are attached to my hands, which are really freakishly strong. Seriously. Ask anyone. My hands are fierce competitors.
It’s funny how I only want to eat a crapload of food when I am in a bad mood, or when the weather sucks. Or how I can so easily access the macabre of motherhood shortly after Luca pees on the same spot on the floor for the fifth time in three hours. Which he is totally doing lately. Peeing on the same spot in his bedroom. He actually bypasses the bathroom, pulls his pants down, and pees. It isn’t even remotely close to an accident, although he tries to play it off as one. It’s delightful, really.
Anyway, it seems like my greatest motivator has become, well, crankiness. And as much as I enjoy the process of eating a ton of food, or even writing a blog post fueled by angst, I have to say, I really like being happy more.
And I’m totally happy. How completely boring!
Most of my 20’s found me battling my own head. That sounds weird. I was going to say I have battled depression but I know that I’ve never been clinically depressed. I‘ve never needed to be medicated—well, until I had children. No, what I battle is the beast of thinking. I overthink and overanalyze every single aspect of (almost) every single thing that happens to me. Or even you, if you tell me about it. So, um, don’t tell me about it right now. Because, well, I’m happy.
I have had arguments with John—and I am talking Long. Freaking. Arguments.—that literally become arguments about arguing. And then—AND THEN—we actually start to fight about how we are arguing about arguing! It’s like tripping on acid!
When I was twenty years old, I began having panic attacks and insomnia. I would be up until 2 or 3 am, usually smoking cigarettes and reading Bukowski. Which is sort of embarrassing. (Could it have been the fact that I chose to read Bukowski that was keeping me awake? I mean, really.) And when I wasn’t reading, I was thinking. I can’t even tell you what it was I was thinking about, but I remember the rapidness of the thoughts. If I had been able to move that energy out of my head and into my body, I would have cleaned the crap out of my apartment every single night. But I was usually stoned, thus rendering my legs immobile.
Awesome. So proud.
Of course, I was going through some emotional stuff, and to me it felt extremely heavy and sort of looming. I was in my early twenties, after all. The panic attacks were more fleeting than the insomnia, which I had every night for at least an entire year. As anyone can tell you, panic attacks are terrifying the first time you have one, and then you sort of get the hang of them. At least I did. Don’t get me wrong, it sucked. All of it. I would never wish panic attacks on any one. Well . . .maybe, like, Hitler.
So, I cherish the moments in my life that are simple, exciting, encouraging, or just plain easy. I don’t have to overcomplicate them as I did most everything when I was in my twenties. I can surrender to the moment. Be here now. Blossom where I’m planted. Live in the moment. Become one with how completely annoying I am being right now.
Exciting things are happening. My children are at this incredible age where they, like, play and, like, talk. With each other. And get their own food sometimes. Rowan can dress himself, of course, and Luca is well on his way. He can most certainly undress himself. And pee on that spot on the floor. And a lot of the times in the actual toilet, which is exciting. However, he is scared to death of pooping in the toilet after one traumatizing painful poop about a year ago that seriously scarred him. That whole “I do it by myself!” stage that made me want to smash glass against a wall is totally paying off! It’s great!
I’ve had enough perspective-builders within the last six months to last me a good ten years, so I’m feeling pretty good about most everything. I have friends and people in my life who are outstanding. Seriously, you should all be jealous. Except, wait! You are probably all my friends! Ha! You are super cool! Can you be jealous of your own self? I can’t even get all depressed about the fact that many of you live thousands of miles away, because you are still accessible to me. So I can stalk you. Which I do. Every night. With a secret camera.
And then, I am heading into my twelfth year of being a massage therapist, a career that I love more each day for its fluidity and satisfaction. Some of my clients have been with me for my entire career, and have seen me through marriage, kids, and multiple apartments (I will always have a special place in my heart for the client who begged me to move out of the apartment next to the drug-dealing midget). Do you know how amazing that is? These people know me in a way not many people do! They have truly seen the evolution of Sarah. Poor saps. But seriously, what I wouldn’t give to provide every one of you with the sort of contentment I feel about my job. Those of you who have it, consider yourselves lucky. Those who don’t may want to consider becoming massage therapists.
My heart is just so full today. My head is quiet, I look forward to tomorrow and am so grateful for today. I’m going to try not to overthink it and just, you know . . . be.