Past My Bedtime

Shhh...it's 9:38pm and it's past my bedtime.  Hubby usually calls bedtime for everyone at 9pm because, well, HE has to wake so early in the morning for work.  But it is summer, after all, and we are changing up the routine a little.  Our son is currently in the den spending time with our other family, the Robertsons.  You know, from Duck Dynasty.  No matter that Papaw Phil and Uncle Si have told him all those stories a dozen times by now.

Myself, I'm not sleepy.  I think I may or may not have had 2 or 3 naps today, helped along by thunder and pouring rain.  Several quite soothing storms that rocked me to sleep like a baby. 

"I need to write, I need to write, I need to write....." said the exhausted 41-year-old mother of the teenager.  I've never gotten the hang of handling life easily, of caring for others and a home and myself all with perfect balance.  So the home and self slide until we are quite messy.

But others tell me I cannot allow myself to get overwhelmed.  When I find it happening I have to ask myself what the benefit of it is. 

I have to get in touch with my Natural Child and when I do, I will be closer to who I was always meant to be.

I have to take care of myself with enough food and sleep and plenty of time for play, which for me is reading.  If I'm having trouble reading, it's a big indicator something is wrong.

Son will be headed off on a mission trip in two weeks.  Husband and I are heading off for a little getaway of our own, where we can hike to waterfalls and fish and swim and go to museums when we are dry and try at least one swanky restaurant, eating mostly out of our refrigerator in our hotel room.  We will in our room early each evening to stretch out on the king-size bed.  Hubby to no doubt watch some sports on TV.  And me to read and write and try to get back in the swing of life.

Such are the things of dreams and disturbances.  Things that keep me awake and things that lull me to sleep.

And All The Angels Sang "Summer!"

I have gone from pining for the season of spring to relishing the beginning of summer.  That's what today is.  I don't care what the calendar says.  The last day of school always means the start of summer. 

My body, mind, and spirit are limp with the relief of knowing there are fun and carefree days and nights ahead.  No more homework.  No more books.  No more hearing about the Social Studies teacher with a bad case of what I like to call "Little Man Syndrome" who has been bullying my son.  The five-foot-five inch teacher, age 35, who has been bullying my 5-foot-8 inch son, age 14 (as of yesterday). 

Now, just sunshine and flowers and swims at the lake. Fresh peaches, blueberries, squash and corn.  Long days and starry nights. 

Of course, I'd like to have some kind of pattern and schedule so that we won't dissolve into chaos and grumpiness.  Our days will have one hour of TV and more hours for books and imagination.  We will rectify a failure of the public school system by teaching my son to write in cursive.  Didn't you know cursive is, like, SO old-fashioned and passe'?  Kids never have to read it because of computers and texts and stuff, they say.  With the genius of that logic I foresee a day when letters and documents written in cursive will be viewed like ancient hieroglyphics and scholars will have to undergo rigorous, intense learning to be able to decipher them.

I'm going to read a lot.  And keep the house clean.  And cook.  Meet friends at the coffee shop.  Host sleepovers. Plan picnics and day trips.  Try art journaling and maybe crochet.  Find time to journal or write every day.  Walk at the gym.  Practice my Praise Moves, the Christian alternative to yoga.  Settle into a warm, safe, and sleepy place of halcyon days and restful, dream-filled nights.

And blog more often.