A life without a story.

There often seems to be no point to my writing, which is I guess why there is so little of it these days.  If I write about the good things, I feel like I’m bragging.  If I write about the bad things, I am complaining.  What is left is the plain old nothing to tell days.

I have a cold.  It is not terrible, but it makes everything feel exhausting.

I spent the entire morning on accounting, and then I picked Ella up from the bus stop.  We had to go grocery shopping.  We have had so many football and basketball games in the last couple of weekends that just filling our bellies was in itself an accomplishment, forget about grocery shopping.

When we got home and got all of the groceries unloaded and put away, it was time for the boys to get home from school.  William came home with an attitude.  I don’t know why.  The boys got ticked off at each other and it went downhill from there.  The attitude.  The defiance.  The hateful words.

I am trying.  I am trying to be a good mother.  I am trying to feed them well, and teach them well, and be a soft place for them to fall.  But it feels like an argument all day long.  Why can’t we get this cereal, why does everything always have to be healthy, why do you have to care so much.  Why can’t I have safari, why can’t I watch this movie, why can’t I play on the ipad for 4 hours today.  Why do you have to care.  

Because I care.

I forgot today was the day my children were supposed to bring a flower to their teacher.  I am trying so hard to remember everything, but I always forget something.  My inability to accomplish the list of things I assign myself is a constant downer.  There is too much to do, so I pick the immediate needs…what can we not live without?  And the rest gets left for another day.  Only that day doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to arrive.  I look around and feel a little overwhelmed at what needs doing around here.  I try to ignore the dust, and the fingerprints and the crumbs.  Some days I convince myself that I did enough…I give myself the pep talk that I’m doing great.  

Some days I don’t.  And this was one of those days.  The words didn’t roll off my back.  They were absorbed.  They feed the worm inside my head — the one with all the insults.  The one that tells me I am never going to be the mother I wanted to be.  How can I be?  How can I ever be the perfect goal I had set for myself?  I have the Hallmark version of motherhood in my head, when in reality, I am a mom sitting in an 11 year old car (which is not smelling real good at the moment), in an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, with makeup that is half cried off, a dog on my lap that is howling at the passers-by and feeling rather beat up by this cold I have.  

I must look like a train wreck.  Do they notice?  Do the kids notice that their mother is a mess?  Some day they will.  Some day they will see.    

I go into the den to get my computer, and there are love notes from my boys.  I keep all of these notes.  Sometimes I read them…they’re tucked safely in my purse…in the zipper pocket…in my calendar…in my bureau…in my drawer filled with love letters and special cards and things I never want to lose. Some of them just say “I love you.”  Some are drawings.  Some tell a story.

Maybe I save them because they make me feel like I’m not such a bad mother after all.

They love me.

A life without a story.