I can't do it. I can't even begin to feel positive about myself for more than oh, two or three seconds at a time.
Yesterday was such a fine day. And Mr. Moon and I ended up by having snuggly chat in bed and we laughed and we talked about things and after he fell asleep I thought about doing a post on breasts and how much we all love breasts and how complex our relationship with breasts is, whether we have them or not and then I spent a good long time giving myself positive messages about myself (I am a loving person, I am a tending person, I have talents, etc.) and then I fell asleep.
I woke up this morning stressed as hell from dreaming over and over that I had missed my flight to Paris AGAIN and even if I did get to the airport on time I had forgotten my purse, my phone, my ticket.
I tried on clothes to wear on the plane. Everything I tried on looked like shit or else was pinned up the back with safety pins and you can't wear a safety-pinned dress to Paris unless you are a Punk Grrrl which I am not.
And then I would miss my flight again.
WTF with the missing-the-flight dreams? I never fly anywhere and I've never missed a flight in my life. Okay, that's a lie, but it was because of missed connections and not my fault.
So like I said, I woke up feeling stressed and anxious and filled with self-doubt and a bit of panic and where, where, WHERE did all my good thoughts from yesterday and last night go?
I wish I had a bottle of Atavan. Or is it Ativan? I do not know.
See? I am anxious because I do not know how to spell the name of an anti-anxiety drug. Okay, I goggled it. It's Ativan.
Anyway, good morning. My butt is big.
No, really, I don't even have a butt.
I'm going to town this morning to Lily's house. Her midwife is coming to do a check-up and I'm going to go be there and take care of Owen if necessary. It will probably be necessary. I'll be glad to see that crazy boy. Also to meet the midwife. It's so funny with Lily how when she was a kid she just disbelieved anything I ever told her, acted like she could not wait to get out of the house (it wasn't an act) and basically and literally from the age of two told me that I was not cool and that was that.
And now here she is, the perfect mother who wants a home birth just like her mama had and who works so hard and is so responsible and seems to love and need me so much and boy, do I wish I could go back and reassure myself ten years ago that everything was going to be all right because it did not look like it was going to be for quite awhile there.
I talked last night to my friend Mary Lane whose birthday it was. Mary Lane and I have been friends since the seventh grade, okay, maybe sixth grade. And here we are, both fifty-seven years old and grandmothers. WHOA! Child. How did THAT happen?
It was good to talk to her. It was so good. But it sure did underscore that life is speeding away, mine at least, because I still remember making campfire stew with Mary Lane in the Girl Scouts and that was yesterday.
And here's today and I am not doing a post on breasts because it would have to be a four-parter, at least, and I need to get ready to go town to meet the midwife, to take care of Owen, to deal with my vastly imperfect self.
My goal for the day is to clean out my hen house. Mr. Moon brought me a whole new bale of straw for that purpose today and I shall do it.
I am not going to Paris, no planes are taking off without me that I need to be on, I am a nurturer, a tender, I have talents.
My butt is not big.
Still. I am vastly imperfect.
And I have no idea what to make for supper. Last night's soup was good but I have frozen the rest of it in small containers for Mr. Moon when I am gone to the beach.
My butt is not big and I am a good cook.
This ain't working.