I’m good with babies. After 4, I should be. I can read their cues, tell you when they’re hungry vs. angry, watch for body language that tells you when they have gas, when they’re tired, or when they just need a dark, quiet space to recoup. Oh yes, I can tell you when a baby is over-stimulated, but somehow I can’t recognize it in myself. Nice.
It has to be physically impossible for just about everyone on the planet to annoy me at once. Or is it? Hmmm.
When I look around my life, I’m dealing with the same stuff I do every day. Crazy kids, hectic schedule, over-caking myself… it’s all pretty routine. Nothing I can’t handle with my typical stress-eating adventures. I really must stock the house with more ice cream… But really, it’s all normal. Everyone in my life is acting like they normally do. I have the same obligations that I normally do. Except the whole “buying a house” thing. Yeah, we’re making that leap. Or should I say “he’s” making that leap? Let’s face it ladies, at least I can walk through the house. Jason’s stuck with a video tour and 141 pictures. I’m not sure any of us would trust our husbands enough to buy a house we’d never stepped foot in. So, back to my ranting…
Perhaps there is a bit more pressure right now than average during deployment. Like instead of my pint-a-month of chocolate-chip-cookie-dough, it’s more like a pint a week… and an occasional cookie. Or twelve. Whatever. I quit counting 3 batches and 5 lbs ago. All 5 kids are home all day, generally fighting with one another before breakfast hits the table. I’m stressed out about moving solo, and yes, I mean solo, in about 3 weeks, and I miss Jason so much there is a physical ache in my chest. So, normal deployment stuff I guess. Nothing that every other wife who’s got a husband deployed isn’t feeling.
So how is it everyone is driving me flogging nuts right now?
Just like a wailing newborn, thrashing and turning my head away from stimuli, I’m longing for a dark, quiet room to sort out my thoughts. Or maybe for the safety of the general public, I should exile myself there. Who knows. If there’s a well-stocked freezer full of my favorites, I’m cool with it.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Crap. Was that consent form signed along with my loan application last month? Or did it sneak in there with the cake contracts I’ve been taking? Where was the giant warning that said “Beware, people are about to begin irking you and your opinion never mattered…” Well, what the hecklo is wrong with me that I’m allowing myself to feel inferior? I’m a smart girl. I’m a pretty girl, I have wonderful children and the love of an amazing man. Yet I keep letting others make me feel things that are less than attractive. Things that make me want to put pictures on dart boards and fling sharp objects. But that’s the thing, I’m LETTING myself feel like this. I’ve brought myself to a stress point that even the most typical of bad behavior has me reacting like the titanic is sinking directly in front of me. That’s not to say I’m not going through a lot right now, because I recognize that I am. I can own it. But I can also own the fact that I’m failing to let the things slide off me that I usually do. Most of the time, when people do… well, the things they do, it ruffles my feathers, and then Jason mellows my mood and it all just rolls off my back. This is not such the case right now. I’m allowing myself to be massively upset by things that I would normally roll my eyes at, and I can admit that. Part of my problem right now is my own hyper-sensitivity.
So what do I plan to do about it? Well… let’s put it this way: Isolationism isn’t just a Cold-War thought, it’s now in effect in Upstate NY. Until I can take a healthy step back, cluck my tongue at someone’s absolutely insensitive antics and move on without raising my blood pressure, I’m just going to act like an ostrich and use my trusted friends as my sand. I’m cool with it. Yes, I really just shrugged my shoulders there.
So, maybe in 3 months, when Jason makes it home. When we’re moved into our new house. When I stop jumping in panic when I hear a car door slam in my driveway. When I’m no longer the lone voice of discipline in this house. When I can once again begin to roll my eyes instead of feeling tears prick them when people speak before thinking…. Yeah. Maybe then I’ll stop letting myself feel inferior.
Until then, where’s the damn ice cream?