Good morning! I’ve never been any darned good with labels. After all, they’re so confining and I’m a peacock, let me fly! (Double Bonus points if you can name that movie.)
|I'm a peacock, let me fly!|
Am I…a wife, Mother, daughter, sister or artist of some flavor, a crafter, or writer? If I’m a writer then am I a Mommy-blogger, a health writer, a humorist, a poet or a journalist? Am I a patient, a person, or simply a nut-ball?
If I were a food, I’d be succotash in the midst of an existential melt-down! (How’s THAT for a seriously random reference?)
I suppose the truth of the matter is I’m all of the above, yet none clearly defines “me.” (Except for the succotash. I’m definitely NOT a food containing lima beans. YUCK!)
Every now and then something so seemingly small happens that causes you to step back and take a look at yourself, something as STUPID as nonchalantly walking along in a ditch beside the road, minding your own business. You go to step over a TINY branch in said ditch only to catch your foot on it and with all the grace of a beached manatee, trip and fall flat on your face in the mud. LITERALLY!
And all this? Yeah well, it happens at the exact moment a car is passing you from each direction. That’s when you find yourself lying face-down in the mud, Tinkerbell-clad ass high in the air, feet attempting to kiss the back of your head, and you’re somewhat concerned as to whether or not you’re going to be able to unfold the pretzel you currently are without assistance.
When I pull a “fail”? I like to make sure it’s an EPIC fail! My Dad always said, “Go big or stay home.” (I’m thinking I most likely should have “stayed home” on this one.)
After I limped home and flopped on the couch to count the ouchies and one or two “Oh SHIZ-NIT’s,” I waited patiently for hubby to gush with sympathy and fawn all over me. Umm…did NOT happen.
When The Girl emerged from her room and I told her what had happened, I fully expected her to drop to her knees beside me, the desperate fear for my safety clearly showing in her panicked eyes as she scanned me for obvious injury.
What I got was a lamely suppressed giggle-fit and then a, “You OK?”
I was crushed! I was heart-broken! I was inwardly pouting like a two year old. I was working my way up to a TRULY epic WAAAAA-WAAAA fit. Then I remembered that I spent my entire existence pretending I wasn’t hurting when I was. And it’s not like I had a limb dangling or was gushing blood from any gaping wound.
It’s wasn’t like any of the multiple times I’ve broken toes when my leg turned to jelly and I sat and screamed (after roughly five minutes of uttering EVERY foul word I know in ever increasingly unique combinations) until someone came to help me up.
I hadn’t TOLD anyone I really was hurt and not just mortifyingly embarrassed. I was putting on my “brave” face, as usual. Damn! WAAA-WAAA fit aborted.
|It's Cookie Monster, not Winnie|
the Pooh. It's just NOT the same!
What does pulling a belly-flop in a ditch have to do with an identity crisis, succotash, or a flying peacock? Beats the be-jeepers outta me! Unless it’s the fact that I woke up today not wanting to be any of the above! I don’t want to put on a strong or brave face today.
Today I want to be a big, fat BABY! I want Winnie the Pooh Band-Aids, toast with extra butter and the crust cut off, and a glass of 7-Up with a bendy straw. I want cartoons and a heated, fuzzy blankie. I WANT MY MOMMY!!!
But…what I’ll actually do is dig through my dresser drawer, find my big-girl panties, pull up my metaphorical boots and put on my “It’s All Good” face and keep on keepin’ on.
However, before I do all that, let me just say one teensy-tiny thing, “WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!”