Forgot To Hit Publish This Morning

Easy to tell which kid is mine.

As I try and navigate each spectacularly busy day, the 24 hour time slots with too much to do, too little time in which to accomplish my To Do List, weird obstacles spring up, other challenges are inconveniently provided, sometimes there's some unexpected joys, but overall I find myself absolutely wiped out each evening.

I did get to go to Wednesday night church services, only to be texted by Pepe's facility, I never got to return the call though, as Sabrina's now working and needing rides along with the soccer tournament schedules, and our usual list of destinations each evening, the end of each school year multiplying the places I need to be.  Before I know it I've turned off all the lights literally on the day's finale, and my house slowly gets quiet so everyone can regroup via sleep for the next day.

Yet last night after church Chuy was cooking piles of enchilladas, smoking up the house with the burner on too high, this after a pasta supper and the chicken salad sandwiches Grandma'd made for my boys.

I'm now officially way behind in my weeding, seeding and reading.  For quite some time there I was making steady progress forward, but lately have had some major time suckers hit me up and stand in my way.

But overall?  The lessening of things, the increase in minimalistic tendencies has had some great rewards if only in the 'less to pick up' category, as impulsive or traumatized kids have no conception of what they are holding in their hands, often leaving stuff scattered everywhere, not even realizing they were holding it in the first place, much less remembering where they'd put it.

"Someone stole my toothbrush," JoJo'll scream ridiculously every morning since he never remembers that he was inexplicably carrying it downstairs or out into the garage.

"It's on the kitchen counter," his emotional twin'll respond whether it is or it isn't.  The answer never matters because JoJo isn't listening, always having been distracted by something else immediately, before the original words even left his mouth, only to then later yell at Allen for something else vitally unimportant and inconsequential.

It took me 12 years to disengage from this predictable morning battleground.  The bottom line is that he just needs to yell every morning, not to be responded to as that'd only fuel his extremely argumentative nature.

I continue to winnow our possessions, to debate every single item's usefulness, then recycling, donating, or better yet, not buying in the first place, an easy thing to do since I avoid stores at all costs.

Sabrina's varsity cheerleading schedule, the sidelines and the competition teams, her upcoming senior year plus college plans, and now her job, two jobs actually as she already had a part time babysitting gig, has all combined to scare her own sunny self somewhat, in that the clock's running down on her time as a carefree high school teenager.

Adulthood looming, but she's very capable.

It seems as if she just arrived here, a cute ten year old who's now needing to firm up some adult plans.  It appears the medical profession's gonna get a good one here with her pretty self.

Asked yet again last night at church, "When are you gonna adopt again?"

Oh my goodness.  I can hardly stifle my scream of, "Never!"  Don't folks realize I've already adopted enough young 'uns?

My van arrives in the church parking lot, double doors flung open, kids jumping out like paratroopers in Viet Nam.  Do I look like I need more soldiers?

"Well, what on earth are you gonna do when they're all grown up?" I get asked constantly, as if I'm too dang dumb to formulate a happy life for myself without all these major responsibilities?  A General with no troops to lead?

I just smile and mutter something about gardening each time.

Oh my goodness how I crave just a bit of free time to myself.

When I'm finally alone, I'll oppositionally mark a calendar with a big X for each day I get to stay home alone and putter, to not crank my vehicle, to not leave the property, to not have to socialize, nor find something presentable to wear out in public.  I'll be living my comfy clothes dream, isolated and reclusive, yet buoyed by the lack of weight of decades of acting-out behaviors.