You Can’t Hug A Chicken Wing
I try to motivate myself. I try to get going and do something. But I continue to find myself only planning for and anticipating their arrival and dreading their departure. When The Babies are home, I’m on point. We all eat a good meal, everybody is in bed on time and bathed. Bedtime stories come with wicked quickness. The next morning is usually a mad dash but they’re to school on time, clean and alert. Everybody has taken their vitamins. My day is productive and orderly.
They go to their mom’s today.
When they’re not around, I lose it. The time in between their stays at home is strung together with Futurama reruns, piled up dishes in the sink, Facebook marathons and several orders of Papa John’s Chipotle chicken wings. I don’t want to admit I’m that guy. You know the guy with no real direction unless he’s ushering kiddlings to a ballet rehearsal or a karate class or the next playdate. I need to get in the gym, do some yardwork, do some real work, call a friend, go to church, join a cause, do something for God’s sake.
I’ve really been trying to get better. And I have made some progress. I don’t cry anymore when they’re gone. And I actually shave on those days. I take my vitamins. And coffee helps. But every now and again I fall back into that self-loathing funk. “OH, WOE IS ME! MY BABIES ARE SO FAR (half mile) AWAY FROM ME!”
Get it together Ben. Snap out of it. You’re going to smother those girls. Give them too many hugs and accolades. Remember, it ain’t about you. It’s about them. And they are doing fine without you. They’ll be back and guaranteed they will be coming with loads of attitude and hair-graying rambunctiousness. So take it down a notch brother!
Outside of my brain.
Ok. I’m better. It will be Tuesday soon. They come back Tuesday. I can survive the next 24 hours.