Montana as Metaphor: the Story of Relationships Rolling Down the Road of Life

After nearly a decade of marriage to the boy I “checked out” at the library in high school, we made the decision so many young families before us had made.  It was important…monumental…financially challenging.  We were loathe to admit we were in that stage of life, but with two young children and all their associated paraphernalia, it had to be done.  Still, it felt stifling, stodgy, boring.  What was it?? 

It was a mini-van. We bought a mini-van.

Now, as far as mini-vans go, it WAS pretty sweet; it was a 2001 Pontiac Montana van…extended version, power everything, entertainment system, recreational package…CUP HOLDERS GALORE!  For 12 years, it provided us transportation across the city, county, state and country.  

And at first, much like any intimate relationship, it was a true love affair.  With young children in tow, that entertainment system helped me distract their minds and mouths so I could listen to Mommy’s music instead of the insipid Barney songs for which they clamored.  The power sliding door was a God-send when arms were laden with groceries and a toddler who refused to walk long after she rightly should have.  And the ample cargo space was perfect for driving across our nation to visit siblings, grandparents and every rest-stop bathroom along the way.  It held portable strollers, high-chairs, playpens, bikes and endless supplies of diapers, snacks and stuffed animals.

Yes, the early days were wonderful.  We had moved from a small bedroom community to the established neighborhood in which I had grown up.  My girls would attend the elementary, middle and high school of my youth, and our ‘village’ was every bit as gloriously Stepford as it had been when I was a child.  Moms gathered in the late afternoon on lawns, watching kids romp, turning a happy hour into impromptu pizza dinners and sleepovers – sometimes a child, sometimes a parent ending up on a couch!  Our mini-van parade carted each other’s kids from school to each other’s homes to dance, soccer and scouts. 

Life passed in a fog of mostly happy activity and exhaustion…naively enjoyed with little thought to a future beyond the next day.

Gradually, though…ever so gradually such that one wouldn’t really notice until looking back with that perfect vision of hindsight…small cracks in the rosy veneer began to show.  A stuck VCR tape…a head set thrown from the sliding door and stepped on…forgotten snacks and beverages left to rot and mold and stick to plastic cup-holders and hidden compartments.  This family moved…that family divorced…another stayed through illness, dysfunction, hardship.

The sweet Mom-tana began to show wear…stress…annoyance.  

WE ALL began to show wear…stress…annoyance.

Then there were the unfortunate bumper-car years; the rear hatch was frighteningly smashed by a semi-truck as I helplessly watched in my rear view mirror.  Not more than two days after getting the van back in perfect shape from the collision shop, *I* backed into a low-slung mailbox…crushing that hatch possibly even worse than the semi-truck had.  A few weeks after that?  I backed into my own mother’s car in my own driveway.  And then the man of the house backed into ME in the same driveway a month or two later. 

In parallel symbiosis, even my own body rebelled.  Having taken up running after a 20 year hiatus at age 40, I promptly acquired not one…not two…BUT THREE STRESS FRACTURES in my femur.  I developed sciatica…plantar fasciitis…migraines.  I was a wreck.  

Still we persevered; we weathered the financial storm of four claims at once on our insurance.  We performed routine maintenance, we replaced a dead battery, constantly refilled a leaky tire…recovered from each human physical set back.   Each little blip would cause momentary panic, provide a lesson to a frazzled mommy on how to check fluid levels, find the nearest air hose, hire a new mechanic… learn to act our age and be realistic in our physical goals. 

 And then we’d lie in wait for the next storm…the naiveté gone, the innocence lost.

Soon mishaps began to occur more frequently.  The a/c in the Mom-tana died.  Coolant began to leak…often.  The helpful sliding door stopped sliding.  Some mystery wire hung low, scraping the street with every mile.  Still more coolant leaked. Grey hairs began to sprout exponentially.  The man of the house experienced grave employment issues and started his own business.  That provided still more…umm…INTERESTING…life lessons and trials.

We replaced the a/c system…fixed shocks and u-joints…replaced gaskets and thermostats and water pumps…bought new brakes, new tires…I got my hair dyed…A LOT…did still more work on the coolant system.  We ran a business, hired an employee, fired an employee, liquidated a business.

Along the way, I became a CEO, CFO and junior mechanic.  Handy with a wrench, I could easily bleed the coolant system and add fluid whenever I begin to over-heat.  I could spot a tire low on air and fill it – or  hand my keys over to the custodian at school to fill it up for me.  I could pretend to do the books, banking and tax preparation with skill.  

We won’t mention the time I accidentally authorized an online IRS payment for $100,000 over a holiday weekend, resulting in the lock-down of all our accounts…

But the unending stress of living life this way took its toll.  The crack in the coolant system gaskets mirrored the crack in my family life.  Nothing fit well anymore, nothing and no one was in sync.  I tried new mechanics, more hair dye, new approaches.  I prayed every prayer, read every book, tried every professional approach or method to heal my vehicle, my family…my marriage.

There were a few last ditch efforts.  Final salvos launched at the problems life presented.  They would seem to work for a short burst of time…and then fizzle.  You know…like the final rally a dying cancer patient often makes? 

Final is the operative word.

Last July, I filed for divorce. Believe me when I tell you that it’s no small understatement to say that my heart, my dreams and my vision for my life were all shattered.  Ever the eternal optimist and traditional family values girl, I thought I’d be married forever.  I thought if I tried just a little harder, pushed a little more forcefully, gave it just a little more effort…I could make everything all better.

I was wrong.  The marriage ended, I moved out, the union is null and void.

And then last week, in one last dying gasp, my sweet Mom-tana spewed its amber toxic coolant waste once again.  

Like me, it was weary.  

Worn down.  

Unable to convince itself that it had a future.

I did all the right things along the way...on both fronts.  I babied that marriage and van.  I loved them both unconditionally, through thick and thin, for better and much worse, richer and insanely poorer – both financially and in spirit.  I sought professional, mental and spiritual help several times over, working on each thing that was identified, following rules and advice that were prescribed.  

Sometimes there was cooperation; but after a while, all systems failed; man and machine weren’t holding up their ends of the bargains.

Was it all for naught?  No.  Oh, hell no…I have two heart-breakingly beautiful daughters, perfect little replicas of their father and I, the proof of a union ordained by God.  We had an amazing journey full of memories of all varieties, on every level.  We learned valuable lessons along the way and came into our own whole beings.

Still… it’s come down to this: an end.  Like knowing when to leave a party, you have to know when to say goodbye to a long-time companion before you end up in an unfortunate situation.  No more willing to find myself stranded on some road than I was willing to find myself or anyone in my family stranded emotionally…we moved on.  The Mom-tana is gone.  The marriage is over.

And yet…it’s a beginning. Life moves on.  New beginnings are granted.

The journey continues.

Top Ten List: Scenes from a 16th Birthday Party

10. For the first time, guests can drive themselves to the party.

9.  Mimicking adults at social gatherings, the boys will start off in one corner of the room while the girls will be in the other.

8.  There ARE boys at the party.

7.  All conversation ceases the moment the adult enters the vicinity.

6. No matter how loud the music, the volume of the talking will rise to meet or exceed it.

5. Because they will nosh all night, there is no such thing as leftover pizza.

4.  The level of amusement her friends express toward the mother’s humor is in direct proportion to the embarrassment the birthday girl expresses toward the same.

3.  The cost of the guests’ collective electronics is more than the price of your first car.

2.  It’s a valid concern that forty-eight cans of caffeinated beverages and six bags of fluorescent orange salty snacks may not be enough.

1. Little Mermaid decorations and gifts from Build-A-Bear are as big a hit today as they were ten birthdays ago.

Sixteen Candles

There was no question in my mind as I grew up that I would go to college, get married, and be a mom.  It was simply understood that it would happen, and I had even plotted out a timeline to follow in order to accomplish those goals at the optimum ages.  I'd graduate at 22 years old and start working immediately, be married at 25, and pop out two children before I turned 30.  I would gleefully change diapers and raise children while keeping a home that would make Martha Stewart jealous.

You know what they say about making plans...when you do, God laughs.

Oh, things got underway relatively easily.  I applied and was admitted to University of Michigan, and after a minor issue first semester (the issue was called ACADEMIC PROBATION for failing calculus)...found my groove.  I decided to become an English teacher.

And that's the first place where the plan began to fail me.  I was accepted into the teaching program late, and that meant using my third year at U of M to mostly pass time while I was waiting to start the two-year certificate program.  I got a part-time job in a small local produce store, signed up for blow-off classes (I paid U of M tuition for ASTRONOMY?  Really???), and spent every possibly waking moment I wasn't at work or in class with my boyfriend.

And then my father died.

After that, I spent a lot of time in bed.  I only had eight credits that semester, blessedly, so there was actually very little to miss.  But I missed most of it anyway.  I had skipped enough of a survey history class on the Vietnam war that I had no real notes to study.  I had to beg for the information from my brother -- coincidentally in the same section as I was.  My total lack of responsibility also necessitated the mother of all cram sessions the weekend before the final as I tried to read all required texts in 48 hours.  Miraculously, I earned a B+ in that class and could put that awful year behind me.

Things seemed to get back on track after that.  I settled into teacher training, four-pointed my last two years of classes, and finally felt like I'd found my place in the world of classrooms.  The college boyfriend and I parted ways, I started dating my best friend, and we were soon engaged and married  by age 26 -- a year later than my plan, but I could live with it!  We socialized often with my college roommate and her husband, spending weekends camping, playing games, helping work on their house, or just hanging out being young and free.

Soon, however, talk of babies entered the conversation.  Remember the master plan? I was to have had all children birthed by age 30.  That milestone was approaching, and I hadn't even started the project!  Our friends got pregnant first, and that put the pressure on us to really get serious about procreating.  I figured it would be super easy, too...after all, my mom had seven kids in eight years.  Surely there was nothing to it.

Here I am holding our friends' baby literally minutes after she was born...Jan. 1995

  

Except there was...there was a lot to it.  For one thing, I insisted we buy a house first. That delayed the process for a few months, though we were haphazardly attempting to start our family anyway.  Once in the house, we continued in earnest.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  Just when I was certain I could never get pregnant...well, I did.  I was ecstatic the day we found out...we had tried for so long -- almost a year -- and I was eagerly anticipating what a glorious time I'd have during this special experience.

Can you hear God laughing at me again?

I won't go into the details of the pregnancy and birth except to say that I never share my stories with new moms-to-be.  Like everything else in my life...nothing went according to plan.  There were issues and complications all throughout the pregnancy.  I failed childbirth miserably, and had my case taken place decades earlier...my daughter and I would surely both have died.  At one point during labor, I sorta wished I could just quit and die valiantly trying to do what so many women do with a slight cough and maybe a sneeze. However, after 48 hours of labor and the inevitable c-section, we finally got this:

The first Simonte grandchild...born May 17, 1996.

Sixteen years ago today, I became a mom.  Now, you're probably looking for that sappy, cliche, sentimental platitude where I say it was the best thing ever to happen to me...that I loved her instantly...that I happily shed my old life and fell into motherhood with joy for every waking moment.

Keep looking.  You won't find that here.  That's right...my plan failed me yet again.  Sent home 48 hours after surgery under orders of what was surely a Nazi run insurance company plan, I was in rough shape.  The baby was jaundiced, contracted thrush and transmitted it to me during our quickly failing nursing attempts.  I didn't want company, and I remember sobbing to my mom over the phone after sneaking out of a visit, crying pitifully that, "I don't even think I love her!  And she's always here...she NEVER LEAVES!"

Ooohh...yeah...I was a mess of hormones, drugs, pain...I wasn't sleeping...I had the lactation consultants all up in my rack touching me...it was pretty awful.  But like any phase of life...it passed.  A few weeks later, I could load that baby up in her carrier to go to Grandma's house.  Craving solitude and exercise, I rode my bike (and got in HUGE trouble for doing it...but I did it!).  I could put the baby in her stroller, take walks and get out of the house.

I even took one day and slept all day except to feed the baby.  Literally.  I'd feed her, change her, put her down...and go back to bed.  After that...things got much better.  I started to really like her.  I liked her a lot!  She started smiling, filling out, getting interactive.  She was pretty darn cute.  And everyone else?

My goodness, you'd have thought that child was the second coming.  Surely she was worthy of my actual LOVE if everyone else was making such a fuss over her, right?  Right. She was.

And she is.  Today, my much wanted, painfully acquired and often frustrating firstborn daughter is sixteen years old.  I don't know how that happened.  I see that picture of her as an infant and it's like it was moments ago.  I can smell her...feel the warmth coming through the blanket...feel the impossibly soft skin on her cheeks.  But then I turn around  and this is what I see:

Sixteen.  She has a driver's permit.  She gets good grades and has sooooo many friends. She's creative, artistic, quirky, musical. She's confident in herself in so many ways that I never was. And she loves me in spite of the fact that we are so much alike.  We can irritate each other  in an instant, but not two seconds later she's throwing her arms around me for a hug.

Sixteen.  Unbelievable.  Incredible.  Mind-blowing.  Just like my daughter...

Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Most women I know love to shop; a mall like the one in my city usually makes them swoon.  And with good reason…we have major retailers, exclusive boutiques and specialty shops found only in the largest metropolitan areas like New York, Chicago or Miami.  But me?  There’s little else I dislike as much as shopping, especially for clothes.  I lack the patience it takes to try on item after item, and I find the lighting in most fitting rooms humiliatingly brutal.  The inconsistency in sizing from brand to brand is equally annoying; I have clothes that fit exactly the same but are labeled in four different sizes.    

I blame a lifetime of body issues for most of my shopping angst. You see, I grew up rather…well…chubby.  Don’t believe me?  Check out my kindergarten picture:

The hair cut didn't help.  Framing a round face like that was just cruel.

Yep, that’s me…up there in the last row, third from the right, in the purple dress.  See the round face?  Still have that.  My dad called me “pleasingly plump.”  I’ll never understand what was pleasing about it, but plump I was.  My dislike of shopping must have started back then; I was forced into the large girls section of Sears and needed my first bra in third grade.  It’s not like I was over-fed, either; meals were healthy, and while we had to clean our plates or eat the offensive food for breakfast, portion sizes were reasonable.  Vegetables were served at every dinner, and fruit was often served for dessert.  

I was just born of sturdy stock; I’m Sicilian, Irish and German.  And ok, we never met a pasta or bread we didn’t like.  The art of baking is innate in our women, and we have chocolate in the house at all times.

Things hadn’t improved by middle school; at 5’5”, I was always taller and weighed more than any of my friends.  Coupled with large ugly glasses and a frightful version of the Dorothy Hamill haircut…well, I was a hot mess.  I don’t remember most of my outfits from that time, but pictures show rather drab and unattractive ensembles best left in the annals of cheap glossy yearbook pages.

The passing of time and the natural order of the life cycle dealt me a few good hands into high school.  Though I never grew any taller than I was in fifth grade, I was always an avid bike rider and participated in some physical endeavors for which I was completely inept.  The increased overall activity helped me slim down to a manageable size, and finally I could think about shopping at stores the cool girls frequented like Kay Baum and The Limited.  It was a grand day when I could borrow my best friend’s super-stylish Brittanica jeans; prior to that, swapping outfits was never an option for me -- not that anyone would have wanted my clothes anyway!  Still, I was aware that the girls boys wanted to “go with” and feel up were usually rail thin, flat-stomached (and chested!) and had skinny bird legs.

I’ve never had a flat stomach. Today, after two c-sections and the bonus hysterectomy that required a third abdominal surgery, I don’t see a flat stomach as ever being remotely possible without an expensive and painful tummy tuck.  And my thighs?  Though powerfully muscular, they could never have been compared to any bird I’ve ever seen.  

By senior year, I had developed a better sense of style, guided mainly by the Preppy Handbook and replete with whales, pink and green sweaters and the requisite Bermuda bag with interchangeable covers.  I had lost significant weight the summer before the school year started – albeit by alternately starving myself for weeks or barfing up whatever I allowed myself to eat.  The number on the scale was lower than I ever recall seeing before that time (or, frankly, since), and I maintained it until sometime in college.  My girlfriend and I would monitor our weight by the fit of my favorite Calvin Klein jeans.  As soon as they became snug…we were on a diet.  

Flag captain!  Yes, I was a band geek...because THAT was going to help self-esteem...sigh.

Looking at pictures now, I am horrified that I judged myself so harshly and felt so badly about myself.  By today’s standards, I was average sized, and my first-day-of-school picture senior year shows a girl clearly pale, gaunt and hungry. 

I still thought I was too fat.  I continued to make myself throw up whenever I “needed” to lose a few pounds.  This was around the time Oprah wheeled out her infamous wagon o’ fat and published a cookbook of diet recipes.  Thin was in, and I was fully aware of my weight all through college.

By the time I found my first full-time teaching job, I finally felt mostly satisfied with who I was and what I looked like.  I exercised routinely, spending up to an hour or more a day on a stair climber, working out to fitness shows, or simply walking and biking.  For about two weeks, I achieved the monumental milestone of becoming a size six.  That I even claim that as significant shows how hung up I was about my weight.  Even then, my wardrobe choices often included pieces that hid my stomach area with long tunic tops and sweaters or flowy dresses.  I hated for my husband to touch me around my waist.

My sisters and I, 1994.  The only thing bigger than my glasses was my face.

Impending motherhood didn’t help. I’m not proud to admit that my initial thoughts after finding out I was pregnant the first time were about gaining weight…getting fat…looking unattractive.  I distinctly remember coming home after one horrifying doctor visit where I had gained three pounds in a month.  I burst out into agonizing sobs as I explained to my husband what had happened, and he just gaped at me in disbelief.  Seeing images of me during either pregnancy is painful, and for many years after having my girls I refused to be photographed if at all possible. 

You cannot understand what it’s like if you’ve never been overweight. Every time I walk into a room, I start scanning to see how I size up (excuse the pun) to the rest of the women.  The anxiety sometimes sends me face deep into a carton of ice cream…

Today, I’m the closest to pre-baby weight that I’ve been since I became a mother.  I’m in better physical shape and stronger than I’ve ever been in my life.  At 46, I’ve achieved fitness goals that 16 couldn’t conceive of, 26 didn’t dream of and 36 could have cared less about.  And still I wonder if I’ll ever get to a place that I won’t worry about my size.  I wonder if I’ll ever pass a mirror without both instinctively looking to see how I appear and then quickly looking away so I don’t have to find out.  I can’t imagine letting a day go by without getting on a scale to track a number that means nothing to anyone but me.

Today...mostly ok with who I am.  But those cheeks?  Sigh...stuck for life.

I see the history of my life in stretch marks and cellulite and fight not to determine any portion my value based on that.

I Dare You

To say I'm competitive is an extreme understatement. As one of seven children, it's no wonder. We always competed...for the last serving of dinner, for our parents' attention, for the best spot in the car. When you are one of so many, you HAD TO fight for your position. To be the first to do anything was like finding the Holy Grail, and we climbed and scraped our way through many a situation to earn our standing amongst the crowd.

To this day, all it takes to make me rise up to a battle is for someone to either tell me I cannot or shouldn't do (insert task here) or to brag that they DID do (insert task here). Heck, even the first kiss with my now husband was based on a dare! We were goofing around, and he told me if I kept it up, he'd kiss me -- thinking it would make me stop whatever it was I was doing to annoy him. Little did he know he was setting himself up for a lifetime of fun...

My freshman year at college, I had a somewhat less than stellar first showing. I'd always earned pretty good grades, skating through high school on minimal effort and staying out of trouble. But at school, away, all on my own, and somehow enrolled in CALCULUS?? I actually failed my first semester. My GPA was...well...1.6. That earned me a big fat "P" on my transcript: PROBATION. Seeing that, and knowing how precious every dollar was spent toward earning that, my father laid it out in plain English at Christmas break.

"You need to come back and live at home and go to Oakland University. You obviously can't keep up there."

COME BACK HOME? Leave U of M for OAKLAND??? He must have been INSANE...no one leaves a Big 10 school for a local university to LIVE AT HOME and share a room with her sister, much less be under the watchful eye of the Big Sicilian. Oh, no, mister...that's all I needed to knuckle down and do better. I'm sure now, looking back, that he did it KNOWING I'd push back against his edict, just to prove him wrong. And I did...not immediately and not drastically, though I did four-point my final two years.

Of course, I had to get through the college boyfriend transferring to U of M and taking classes together, and the inevitable break-up with said boyfriend a few years later. Then my father died suddenly, and I decided many days that simply getting out of bed was asking too much. My grades during those years clearly reflected those occurrences.

Sometimes, the challenge I claim is trivial and means nothing to anyone but me. Many times it focuses on some physical feat I determine must be overcome to prove a point. My daughters' swim coach used to say, " Swim in your own lane!" meaning, "Compete with yourself." That sums me up to a T. I'll hear someone say, "Wow, I just rode X miles on my bike!" so I'll go out and ride X +1 to see if I can. Then I'll do it again but try for a faster time. Or I'll try to do it on a tougher course...anything it takes to "take it up a notch."

That reasoning has led me to do lots of silly things over the years. Told to take it easy during pregnancy meant laughing at concerned warnings from friends. I painted bedrooms even though a co-worker told me not to raise my arms over my head. I shoveled rocks at 38 weeks pregnant because I refused to sit and be a blob or wait for someone else to do it. Granted, I broke my water that night a delivered two weeks early...oops. But two weeks LATER after my post-surgical check-up, I was on my bike riding around the neighborhood because technically I COULD.

I never learn.

When I turned 40, I decided I had to run a mile. I'd had bouts with jogging attempts over the years, but nothing serious and not for any measurable duration. Then I determined that to be a REAL runner, I had to finish a 5K. I started taking our black Lab Truman with me, and we accomplished a mile in fairly short order. I was well on my way to two miles when I developed what I thought was a sore knee. It hadn't occurred to me that at my age, with bad shoes and a dog dragging me along on concrete, I might do some serious damage.

Turns out it was actually a fractured femur starting to splinter off into two other directions. But before we figured that out, I hadn't stopped running because I had to keep competing with that worthy adversary...MYSELF! I'd also trekked through an airport on that leg, climbed flights of stairs daily at school, and chaperoned a trip to our state's capitol. Finally, after x-rays, two MRI's and a frantic phone call from the doctor telling me to GET OFF THAT LEG, I was told to cool it on the training. Two weeks on crutches and stern warnings cured me of running for five years...

Once hobbled, I decided to tackle swimming next. The girls were on the swim team and complaining MIGHTILY about how many laps they had to do each day. No problem, I told them...tell me how many, an I'll do the same in solidarity. "You'll never make it!" they laughed. That's all it took to force me to call their bluff.

Holy crap...it was A LOT of laps...but if they could do it, I had to. I started with two laps...then four...then ten. Slowly I built up to a mile by the end of that summer and repeated it for the next two summers just to see if I still could.
Last summer, I finally scheduled a surgery I'd put off longer than necessary. For years, a female issue had plagued me, and I'd finally reached my breaking point. After the first few horrific days at Camp Beaumont (where I was humbled by pain and the extensive nature of the surgery), I was allowed to walk "small distances" but NOTHING ELSE. PSHAW! In the hospital, I'd been doing wall push-ups in the shower (where I couldn't get caught), and then started a strict walking program at home. I'd time myself and measure my distance using a program on my iPhone, and then beat each previous day's efforts. At my two-week check-up, I proudly shared my progress and asked for clearance for swimming, biking, tennis...all denied. And I was soundly reprimanded for the walking regimen.

That obviously made me up the challenge...didn't that doctor know who she was dealing with??? By fall, I was walking my typical three miles and had even worked my thrice sliced and decimated core muscles up to a full minute in plank.
The latest accomplishment has been to revisit that 5K dream. I'd toyed with it a few times over the past five years, only to give in to temporary issues like shin splints, excess weight or laziness. But it never left me, that desire to reach the elusive milestone. I'd see other friends, neighbors or random strangers doing the same...some much older, heavier, riddled with health issues. Surely I COULD do it. I even dreamed of running...vivid dreams where I'd run great lengths for no reason. So in March I looked up the Cool Running Couch to 5K program once again, and hit the treadmill.

By the end of June, I'd run my first REAL 5K, but only after a trial attempt alone on a local track. I had to do it for myself before I did it in front of others...and then when I ran the public race, I had to beat my solo time.

I never know what the next challenge will be. And sometimes I'll think about it for years before diving in and conquering it. Other times, it's a random statement from someone else that throws the proverbial gauntlet down at my feet. That person may never know what they've forced me to do! But if you are reading this now, you have a powerful secret to get me to try something.

Just don't dare me. I might not be able to help myself.

Letdown

The year leading up to my wedding was an incredibly busy and exciting one. I had just started my first full-time teaching job in a Catholic school after spending the past two years working four part-time jobs simultaneously. I knew NOTHING about running a classroom or teaching curriculum beyond what I'd been told by the best principal I ever had. I asked what exactly I was to teach.

Sister Gloria Jean handed me the English and American history textbooks and said, "Teach this."

So I did...in addition to religion, art, handwriting and spelling. It was A LOT of work...and I got only two precious breaks all week while the kids went to computers and gym.

We also were charged with getting those sixty eighth-graders ready for Confirmation and graduation -- two huge events that took place within the last month or two of school. My wedding date was a mere two weeks AFTER the end of the year. So by May, I could hardly think straight. I often look back on that year and those kids and wish for a do-over so I could tell them, "Hey! I really AM a good teacher! I really DO know what I'm doing!" But whatever...such is life...it is what it is...blah blah blah. Somehow I made it through, the year ended, and I got married.

We left for the honeymoon vacation of a lifetime.

And then I was back home in my new apartment while my husband went back to work. There was little else for me to do but write thank you notes and make dinner.

I was bored.

I wandered around the (little) apartment looking for something...ANYTHING...to occupy my time.

I shopped a bit...but what could I possibly need after a wedding??? Our possessions hardly fit in the apartment as it was.

I finally found the pool and spent long afternoons there reading trash novels. My husband would come home in time for dinner, whipped from a long day, and have me pounce on him to go do something...ANYTHING...to entertain me. To say he was irritated is an understatement.

It was just that post-wedding, post-school year letdown. I had been riding a wave of adrenalin for so long that my body didn't know how to sit still. I craved activity, excitement, ANYTHING more than what I had.

You know where this is leading, right?

Fast forward...this past school year was perhaps the busiest yet. I worked harder this year than ever before, both academically and administratively. We have an incredibly diverse study body with specialized needs for whom we plan individual lessons, and we're going through accreditation. A teacher will read that and shudder. Everyone else can just assume that it's TERRIBLE. And I was put in charge of THE DOCUMENT. Committees worked and reported and drafted their piece, gave them to me, I edited, revised and entered the information. It's over 100 pages long...and I sat on/wrote for two committees myself.

And then there was this little matter of community activism. Since the day after the November elections last fall, I have been 110% consumed with helping save my library. I stepped off a cliff and into the political arena, and life will never be the same.

Oh, and I was incredibly lucky to be able to start freelance writing IN MY SPARE TIME. Ha!

So if you had told me a year ago -- when I had just had major surgery and was happy to be able to walk across a room without vicodin -- that I would help start a grassroots coalition, speak multiple times to audiences greater than 100, be a panelist on a televised town hall, talk on radio with a progressive warrior, record a robo-call and CHANGE THE WORLD in my little city, I'd have LAUGHED AT YOU.

Not a day has gone by in those nine months that I haven't had a full e-mail inbox, multiple FB messages, texts and phone calls galore. Not a day has gone by that I haven't been fully engaged with a plan of attack for my hours. Not a week has gone by that I didn't have somewhere to be nearly every night.

Until this week.

Letdown.

I don't know what to do with myself. I'm bored...despondent, nearly! All my politicos are back to work. My husband is dreadfully busy and battle weary at his job. My kids sleep all morning and are too old to be interested in mommy's adventures ("What makes you think I WANT to wash the car???" spit my 15 year old at me yesterday...), and the things I SHOULD do lack excitement.

I mean...come on...appear on TV or scrub a toilet? Can you blame me??? I'm lucky to shower before dinner, and that's only because I had (thankfully!) two good reasons to be somewhere the last two nights.

Even then, it took me an inordinate amount of time to put together an agenda for a board I chair...an agenda that should have taken ten minutes to formulate. I think I spent over two hours of staring at the computer...trying to remember what to do...looking for e-mails with snippets of details for the meeting.

Oh, and refreshing my e-mail and key websites to see if there was any news, information, contact regarding the library issue.

At one point, I almost called my husband to ask if our network was down.

Refresh...sigh.
Refresh...sigh.
Refresh...WAHHH!!!

The greatest irony is that in a week or two, I'll find my rhythm again. School will ramp-up, the push for November elections will be under way, and I'll be crying uncle at the heap of business on my plate.

But until then...you'll find me wandering the house, staring into space, idly refreshing tabs on my computer browser.

What I Didn't Do Today

First, I'll tell you what I DID do today:

-- checked e-mail about 1,000 times...read, responded to and archived most of today's crop
-- wrote a letter to an editor
-- tried to fun a 5K; instead ran a 2.5K and rode my bike about 5K to and from a local park
-- met my husband for Friday lunch date
-- scrubbed shower grout with a toothbrush
-- scrubbed two toilets
-- folded two loads of laundry
-- shopped for groceries
-- got the oil changed in my hoopty mom van
-- delivered 3 lawn signs for the library campaign
-- made dinner
-- had three separate and engaging phone conversations with the same person for approx. 90 combined minutes
-- ordered my children around so they could do two loads of their own laundry
-- shopped for a Bat Mitzvah gift and card
-- purchased a Father's Day gift
-- engaged in a spirited online debate over reckless youth and their stupid antics
-- ate some java chip ice cream

Did you notice I said scrubbed shower grout with a toothbrush and scrubbed two toilets???

That right there should have been the only clue anyone needed to figure out that what I ACTUALLY did all day consisted of one thing...and one thing only:

I PROCRASTINATED.

I did all of that today to avoid doing the only thing I really should have gotten done today.

And I'm not sorry.