When I was a full of drama, teenager/middle-schooler/probably elementary schooler and preschooler too, I would stomp off to my room when mad. Shutting my door, I would flop in dramatic defeat onto my bed and sigh loud enough for the house to hear.
Laying there, unsatisfied with the lack of results from my grand showcasing of emotions, I would add another sigh or two, for effect. Being mad never really got me anywhere other than staring at the back of my door or glaring at my ceiling hoping that my dad wasn’t right about my face freezing that way.
Today if I were to stomp off to my room I would be followed by half an army and someone would undoubtedly slam their finger in the door. But I have that urge to throw myself into my bed or just huff and puff at the universe for all the stuff. The stuff is making me a little crazy. Like I can sit still in the quiet and my foot will still be tapping over the stuff. My frustration over the grief and the loss and the autism and the special needs everything-under-the-sun in my house has given me a case of serious three year-old pouting and I’m just over here throwing Cheerios at the door while I count the ways things didn’t turn out as I planned.
I ran into our bedroom door last night trying to get to the latest child calling my name. Since I walked full-force into it, I let out an owww and was hunched forward trying to get over the pain in my face when my son said, “Are you okay Mommy but when are you coming to our room?” I stood for a second trying to get my bearings and thought, if that door would have knocked me out I would have been lying on the floor and someone would still be asking for juice and someone else would be melting down and more people would be wanting me to fix their blankets and wash their white shirts. I have to get up because no one else is going to do it for me.
There is the pain and the feeling it and the hanging onto it but there has to be the letting go of it. I may be chanting “the only way out is through” until I’m touring nursing homes but somehow my attitude is not freezing this way. I’m not missing bedtime stories because I’m mad at the door and meltdown #475,682 is not stopping me from the cuddle afterwards.
There will always been a moment that is better than the last and a today that is better than yesterday. I’m just squinting to see them over this big pile of stuff I’ve let knock me down.
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