This week I’m taking care of two of my grandkids. When I woke up the four-year-old in the morning, our conversation went like this.
I kissed her forehead and said, “Good Morning, Sweet Pea.”
She stretched and yawned, then said. “I don’t want that for breakfast.”
“I haven’t even told you what I’m cooking.”
“I know. But I don’t want that.”
That’s how I’ve been feeling lately. I don’t want that…I don’t even know what the “that” is that I don’t want.
In the morning, looking forward to some quiet time, I make my tea, pick up my journal and go to sit in an Adirondack chair surrounded by lush gardens. But, that’s not what I want.
After breakfast, I go to my office to write. As I’m driving, I’m working out a problem with my new novel. I love this story but, I can’t figure out how to describe the wings the main character is anxious to have removed so she can be like the rest of the teenagers. Are they dragon wings? Butterfly wings? Bird Wings? I don’t know and now…I don’t want to do that.
I’ve tried shopping therapy — I came home with hives from the stress.
I tried redecorating therapy — I haven’t finished, so now I have paint cans and brushes sitting around my house that have been there long enough, I actually had to dust them.
I even tried hair therapy, but you all know how that turned out..
I catch myself sighing every few minutes and now I’m afraid I’m turning into my Grandmother Nellie, who walked around expelling sighs loud enough to power half the wind turbines in Kansas.
I heard a self-help guru recently who said if you change something in one part of your life, the part you want to change will happen, so when a friend of mine asked if I’d go with her to get training for a motorcycle license I said yes. Unfortunately, that’s not until the fall.
Maybe the change I need right now is something that will help me lose those five extra pounds that are hanging around my middle. I’ll stop at the store on the way home and buy something healthy to cook.
I climb in my car, and at the first red light I turn the opposite direction of the store because, sigh, even though I don’t know what I was going to cook, I know I don’t want that.
Here’s my youngest grandson, dressed and ready to be admitted as the newest citizen of Crazie Town. Care to join him?