I am in a full fledged panic. But I am proud that I remembered that it is two pieces for 98 cents at Church's Chicken, so the kids and I can get back from music/art lessons and finish up some class work instead of making lunch.
I need to go see my grandmother. I have not made some issues right with her yet and can't seem to will myself to move towards any of my extended family. I feel frozen. I have cocooned up with the nuclear fam and their holiday illnesses.
I am in mid-major decision about sending my youngest two kids back to school next year, because we only pulled them out so we could travel. Hasn't happened. Major bummer. And so, they are working on auditioning for Arts Magnet where Chris and I went to school. That feels weird. And I feel weird.
I am looking at what I had planned for last semester and analyzing what we did, how we did it and feeling like our portfolios are a bit pathetic, not in quality, but amount of work produced. You know, proof.
And I am gearing up to teach a writing class, which will help me stay organized and on track, but well, I'm still not done figuring our last semester, so I am panicking.
And there's a book on my dash that I'm supposed to look at and see if I can make curriculum out of for a non-profit. I haven't read it yet.
And everyone needs help. Everyone. Because we are human and we need each other like that.
And I'm trying, but I can't help but feel this debilitating urge to hold my breath.
And things pop up to make me even weirder.
Like, I hear an interview on the radio that started with perceptions on war on metaphorical wars as opposed to real wars and somehow they start discussing cloning and stem cell research and I am suddenly in tears, but my kids are with me, so I fake a sneeze and a cough so they don't notice, because I am always waiting, always hopeful, but know it's not close enough to to even consider asking our neurosurgeon, (one of the best, Dr. Sklar) if it would ever be possible to recreate brain cells from Chaz's brain to make up for the lack of corpus callosum or to take the place of the cyst in his brain.
Even if it's twenty years away, I hope.
Because it's hard to tell your kid he can't do stuff. Major stuff, like have kids.
It's hard to say that over and over because he's forgotten what you said six months ago.
So, I take a deep breath and sigh in the drive- thru. I feel the heat through the cracked windshield, and tick off my mental list for the day and say, "Jesus."
And Jesus says simply, to me, "Enjoy your chicken."
(The fact that I read Outliers and For You Mother, Finally back to back in two days is not lost on me. I realize I am easily affected and am now reading the Tao of Pooh.)