Chadd’s been really busy at work lately; the kind of busy I can’t even imagine. The kind of pull-your-hair-out with a deadline professional busy, that I am never up against. I try to be the best type of partner and support that I can be, but his brain and my brain don’t always sync up, and I’ll find myself playing catch-up in order to make it all happen the way he needs it to be.
But that’s OK with me, as long as it works for him. Because I don’t want his brain, and I can guarantee you that he doesn’t want mine. (As an example, we had parent-teacher review last night at Sonja’s school, and according to her, I am the embarrassing one! Who knew? Well, yeah, I did, because Chadd is much more of the restrained type, whereas I can bring the “je ne sais quoi” factor to the point where Chadd is left wondering “what the hell was that?”).
Parent-teacher reviews affect me in the strangest way. It seems that I am scary proud of my kids, and I want to show the teacher how much of a supportive, interesting, involved family life my kids have. And, if you ask Sonja, I have the strangest way of showing it. I think I’m grounded from any future parent-teacher.
I was reading a book this morning that made me think about the personal metamorphosis that is life. (It was “All Wound Up” by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, lest you think I’m into heavy philosophical literature. The book was realistic, but depressing towards the end, as she talks about finally finding ease and understanding of who she is, 40-some years into the game.) She threw a few good points out there, however, and it got me thinking about the many, many ways that my childhood differed from how my girls are growing up. And how it matters not a bit.
There’s a whole big old world out there, filled with all sorts of people on all ends of the spectrum, with all different lives and paths out there. Life will get lived. My only piece of advice?
Life is better with a basset.