The balls they are a’bouncing.
And that is okay.
I am so tired. So very tired. But onward I press.
I remember another husbandless twelve days – I think it was trip #2 or #3 – and I survived by staying organized, keeping things clean, keeping things simple. And that worked.
This time, survival means letting everything go. And that, too, works rather well.
Wednesday night requires slightly more coordination and taxi service than other nights because Meghan goes to student ministry from 6:00 to 8:30, and the boys go to kids’ discipleship 6:15 to 7:45. We live approximately 12.3 minutes from church, depending on lights and drivers going the speed limit in the left-hand lane. When Michael is not halfway around the globe, we can swing it. When he is, we end up with a dead battery.
The boys and I were sitting in the loser cruiser, listening to music, reading books, waiting for Meghan. Engine off, car powered. Until it wasn’t. Until it died. At 8:07 p.m.
Thankfully the parking lot was not completely empty yet, so a kind grandma and her daughter helped us – along with daughter’s husband on the other end of daughter’s cell phone giving daughter step-by-step instructions on jumping a car battery.
I vaguely remember learning that skill, but I was too tired to locate that particular piece of knowledge within the vast recesses of my brain. At least without blowing up my car.
We started my car, removed the cables…and my car died again. Repeat. Rev the engine. Wait. Success.
Husband-On-Cell-Phone strongly suggested a new battery.
(Did I mention that “fabulous” is my new favorite word?)
I wondered how I would get a new battery when my calendar was already booked solid the next day. Then I remembered. Michael’s car is sitting in our garage. If I can make it to the car battery store before he comes home, I will. If not, one of us can deal with it next week. Or the week after.
Either way, I’m dropping this particular ball.
When I looked at my calendar for Thursday night, I almost panicked. Soccer practice and dance class at the same times, across town. Plus a Tiger Cub meeting. I could have made it happen. I could have sped back and forth and spent the entire evening in the car. I could have worn myself out.
But I didn’t. Instead, we bagged everything. We stayed home. For one glorious evening, we didn’t go anywhere. Nathan tagged along to the Tiger Cub meeting with one of his buddies and his dad, while Meghan, Griffin and I stayed home and relaxed. Read some books, watched some television, ate dinner together without a nary “hurry up and eat! Quit playing! Stop talking! Stop singing! We have to go!” None of that. Just a leisurely how-was-your-day kind of dinner. Just the way it should be.
It was glorious. I’m thinking we need to bag everything more often.
My house is still a disaster. Truly, it’s disgusting. If I weren’t in survival mode, I’d be embarrassed and ashamed of myself. But since I am barely functioning in survival mode, and it’s all I can do to get the kids to school and home and (most of) their activities, much less fed – well, I’m choosing not to be embarrassed. I’m choosing to let the ball drop. I’m choosing to breathe.
The good news is that Michael comes home tomorrow. Tomorrow our crazy lives will return to crazy normal (as opposed to insanely chaotic and impossible normal). Tomorrow we will return to tag-team parenting and family dinners and shared bedtime routines. Tomorrow our family will return to wholeness and predictability and, with any luck, a little bit of cleanliness.
I love ya, Tomorrow.