Confession

You’d think that with “Ankle-Gate 2012” going into week 6, I’d be taking advantage of the mandatory time I’ve been spending on the couch. 

You’d be wrong. 

I mean, I’m sitting around, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t stuff that needs to be done.  Even with the changing of the guard, the constant stream of “adult babysitters” that have come to help out, there are some things that I have to do myself. There are papers to sign, there are clothes to put away, there are clothes to switch out for the season.  There are the myriad of little things that are easier to take care of on my own, on one foot, than trying to explain where something in particular is.  I used to think I had a good vocabulary and decent powers of description, but when forced to tell someone else where I keep my feminine products? Words failed me, big time. 

In any event, I’m doing the best I can. The girls have been BEYOND patient. I know that I haven’t been my best self. I’m so frustrated (still), that I have become less than the parent I know I can be.  Having to have tendon surgery and the requisite recuperation requirements has made me a terrible parent.  I am so angry at what I can’t do. I’m angry about what I’ve had to miss. 

You all know how much I love fall;  I saw this list and wanted to cry. 

(image)

That last bullet point kind of put me over the edge.  

I’m. Just. Angry.

And I’ve been expressing it in the worst way.  I’m less loving, less patient, less indulgent, less of the parent I want to be. I’m more Joan Crawford than Claire Huxtable. Wire hangers excepted, of course.
And that makes me angry. Round and round we go.
I’ve got to do better. They deserve better. The Hubs deserves better.  I know I’m a better person than this.  I’m not particularly religious, but I would say that I’m prayerful.  I often ask for a better, stronger, more definitive relationship with God.  And there are signs all around me, but I’m so busy doing this, that and the other thing, I fail to see them.  Is this accident God’s way of literally stopping me in my tracks so that I gain a little perspective on what’s truly important (I know it’s not kettlebells)? Yeah, I’m going to have to say it certainly feels that way. 

I’m on Twitter, one of the many ways I’ve squandered spent my bed rest in the early weeks of recovery.  I’m still figuring it out, but a feed that I don’t follow popped up in my newsfeed. 

яIήAd' AlAHMADIKatie Kowitz
7:48 AM – 12 Oct 12 · Details

I think God is bonking me on the head like, “Hey! I’m here. I’ve always been here taking care of you and I always will.  

I was reading “Prospect Park West” by Amy Sohn which is a novel set in Brooklyn about the mis-adventures of a group of mothers whose lives intersect in and around the neighborhood.  It was a good read and of all of the juicy tidbits surrounding the characters, the take away for me was the story of the two monks. I don’t know if this is a true parable or if Sohn made it up, (her version is slightly different) but either way, I think I need this tattooed down my arm or something. 

The Two Monks (found here)

Two monks were making a pilgrimage to venerate the relics of a great Saint. During the course of their journey, they came to a river where they met a beautiful young woman — an apparently worldly creature, dressed in expensive finery and with her hair done up in the latest fashion. She was afraid of the current and afraid of ruining her lovely clothing, so asked the brothers if they might carry her across the river.

The younger and more exacting of the brothers was offended at the very idea and turned away with an attitude of disgust. The older brother didn’t hesitate, and quickly picked the woman up on his shoulders, carried her across the river, and set her down on the other side. She thanked him and went on her way, and the brother waded back through the waters.

The monks resumed their walk, the older one in perfect equanimity and enjoying the beautiful countryside, while the younger one grew more and more brooding and distracted, so much so that he could keep his silence no longer and suddenly burst out, “Brother, we are taught to avoid contact with women, and there you were, not just touching a woman, but carrying her on your shoulders!”

The older monk looked at the younger with a loving, pitiful smile and said, “Brother, I set her down on the other side of the river; you are still carrying her.”

I need to put this load down. I should have put it down six weeks ago.  It’s the Serenity Prayer put into action.  I have been less than wise here.  I’ve cried, I’ve bellyached, I’ve (mentally) stomped around.  

Enough. 
It’s done. 
I’m not saying, I’m over it. I do have to use crutches to get around, after all (hello, constant reminder), but I’m going to be more self-aware. I’m going to try to be more patient. I’m going to hug and kiss more, and sigh out of frustration less.  

I’m going to start by apologizing to my girls. 
And then I’m going to make them pecan pumpkin muffins. It is fall, after all.
IN: ON: October 15, 2012 BY: Hilary 2 COMMENTS
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