I've been thinking about this Two Hundredth Post. As if it's a big deal. And I'm thinking maybe it's not. There are lots of other Big Deal Things going on around here, and despite the great week it's been statistically here in blog-o-land, it doesn't fall into the Big Deal category.
So what's a big deal?
HB has a broken finger. Wee Man slammed it in Miss O's bedroom door (just havin' fun, mama, I sowwy Henny, no more cwyin'). The tip of his right hand middle finger was fractured, although babies heal so quickly the bone is probably completely mended by now. The nail on that finger... not so much. It was white like the freshly fallen snow. So gross. But then one day, after he had been splashing in a filthy puddle, I scrubbed him up with some wipes. And ripped the fingernail almost completely off. Because I can be an ass sometimes. I was overcome with guilt and waves of nausea. It was awful.
The upside? (As if there's really an upside when you have a broken baby, but I say take it where you can get it.) There's a new Nurse Practitioner at our doctor's office, and he is Pretty. Not pretty in a sort of mockery sort of way, but pretty as in, Can I schedule an appointment with A____ because, well, just because, that's why. Who's the patient? Well, there's five of us, so just pick one. Ummm, ma'am, is someone ill? Oh, never mind. I'll just look at the pictures on my cell phone.
I do not actually stalk the Nurse Practitioner. Or photograph without his permission. But I did consider bringing along my real camera and asking him if I could blog about him. And then I decided that he would call the police. And I've had enough of that for one year.
Note to self: Call the doc and congratulate her on her excellent choice in employees.
What else is a big deal? The Mister has a musical this week.
Translation: In addition to working 65 hour weeks for the Dictator Extraordinaire building pole barns, he will be working at least 40 hours on Jesus Christ Superstar. Or some other Lloyd Webber pukesterpiece. It's all Superstar to me, man. (Insert gavomit here.)
Additional translation: While we are still married, and pleased to be so, it will be as if we are two ships, who never actually dock in the same port at the same time, ever. The children will be zombies, running all over the house roaring, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY DADDY?!?!?!?, as if I have taken the liberty of hiding him under the sofa, or in the closet under the towels. It is going to be MAD FUN.
Let me think, what else is a big deal? Oh right. I've been kindasortareally pissed at God this week. There are a number of things on my Bucket List, also known as What He And I Are Going To Discuss When I Kick The Bucket, and some of them have been bugging me lately, but mostly I am annoyed by life in general. We had a sermon a few weeks ago, and our pastor talked all about how serving God brings awesome peace in your life. Maybe that wasn't what the WHOLE THING was about, but that line stuck in my head. And pissed me off.
And that same week, one of the worship tunes was one based on the Jeremiah scripture, "And I know the plans I have for you...good things, not bad things, nothing that will harm you..." (That is obviously paraphrased.) Really? There's a plan for me? Outside of this whole low-level functioning thing that's going on right now? Because I'm thinking you're pulling my leg.
Miss O. would say, You are doing the sarcasm, aren't you? But she would be SAYING. Not ASKING. Because she knows.
The Mister and I are working really hard to be good parents, and he works himself ragged for The Dictator Extraordinaire building barns, and we pay our bills on time, and love each other and our kids, and we are tapped out. We're so tired that sometimes we can't even have a conversation, some days it doesn't occur to me to ask him how his day was. And I'm not really finding the peace in this situation.
I do a lot of things for other people. I'm not shining my helper badge or anything, that's just something I do. Okay, I am a little bit compulsive about it, but I have been working on being selective and saying no, and blah, blah, blah. But I'm pretty much done with other people, because I just don't have anything to pour out. There's a season for everything under heaven, the Book says, and let me say this: IT IS THE SEASON FOR SOMEBODY OR EVERYBODY TO POUR INTO ME. Dammit.
So bring me your urns, full of loving, beer, pasta, chocolate, and other high-carb treats. Massage my feet and take my children to the playground because Lord knows I'm too tired to walk there, and the thought of buckling them all into their respective restraints is overwhelming. Fluff my pillows, heck, wash my sheets, that'd be great. Tuck me in bed for a week with my Jane Austen anthology, and pretend you think I'll read it instead of sleeping. Turn my phone off, or just hide it with my husband under the sofa. And if you wanted to clean my house, I promise I would let you.