Making goals is a waste of time. Seriously. I mean, I brainstormed my wishes and noted my obligations, and then made a lovely little spreadsheet that detailed the progress I needed to make on various creative pursuits in order to finish all those projects. The spreadsheet was a work of art–I made myself be very honest about burn-out, the kids’ school breaks, and even put in an entire month of “no crafting” plans during summer vacation because, let’s be honest here, summer vacation is for being outside and driving all over the place to visit family and landmarks. Ain’t nobody got time for that AND crafting. Beautiful spreadsheet; honest and still very productive.
Enter: MY FREAKIN’ LIFE.
MY FREAKIN’ LIFE, apparently, despises any semblance of order, consistency, or diligence. I’m trying to embrace the idea of being an accountable adult; you know, the kind of adult that does homework with the kids at night, and shows up with doughnuts for their kid’s class on their birthday, and cleans the bathroom every week even though it doesn’t look too different from when I cleaned it last week, and even stops crafting in the middle of a row or a seam or a whatever-it-is-that-screams “Just until you finish this part” because it’s 4:45 pm and that is when I have to start cooking dinner. Not 4:46, or 5:07, but 4:45pm, and then homework, etc. until 8:00pm because at 8:01pm I return to my partially finished “part” and resume whatever it was that I was doing before I had to go cook dinner. Responsible adult-like behavior and stuff that will lessen all the conversations that go along the lines of, “I have no clean underwear,” “I filled the dog’s bowl with cat food because we ran out of dog food last week,” and “The stamp on my hand is to remind me to tell you that I have no money in my school lunch account.”
Yeah, all that responsible adult stuff? Completely incompatible with MY FREAKIN’ LIFE.
You want to know why? Sure, I’ll show you, because I even have photographic proof:
My husband took three of our children to church with him this past Sunday, leaving me home with our (literally) snot-nosed four year old. You see, I injured my back as a teenager, and it flares up from time to time, necessitating some “ice and rest” time and slipping the local chiropractor a few Benjamins to stretch out the ol’ spinal column and encourage those pesky little spinal discs to behave themselves. I’ve been on the ice, rest, and stretching regime since the beginning of February after I woke up one morning and my back just said, “Nope.”
Just like that, “Nope. No adulting for you. Not for a while.”
Never mind that my husband had just left for Australia two days before, and that it was a Monday morning and my kids had to get to school. “Nope.” I limped, gasped, and screamed my way through the morning’s required activities, shooed the kids off to the bus stop, and dialed up my chiropractor. We skipped over all the usual warm-ups and just sent me straight into all the “big gun” types of things we do for my back, and they barely worked, but they did work. In fact, last Saturday I woke up and thought, “You know what? This is getting better. I am rocking this.”
Four hours later I was in the emergency room, clenching every muscle in my body to keep from screaming and thrashing against the pain of whatever-in-the-world had given way in my back. We are talking, “If back pain was labor, I’m at 8 centimeters” pain.
Four days after that I had an MRI done, and the day after that I had a consult with a neurosurgeon who said I really needed to have back surgery.
So, today, I am going to have back surgery. I’ve been trying to avoid this for seventeen years, but we are so totally there.
Which brings us back to this:
After my husband took our kids to church, I dozed off on the couch while my lethargic four year old watched some terrible kiddie program that made me want to die, and I awoke when my phone buzzed at me for some reason, and when I got past my lock screen, this image is what was waiting for me.
I have no memory of taking this picture.
And, I know, since this is a crafting blog, that most of you immediately looked at the project portion of the photo:
But what concerns me most is the other side of the photo:
I just want to know what was going through my head when I decided I needed to take a picture of my pajama-ed, flat-on-my-back self next to a crumpled up heap of stitched fabric. What thought entered my narcotic-addled brain that prompted me to cozy on up next to my wrinkled project and smile big for the camera?
That is not the face of a responsible person who can adult. That is the face of woman whose eyes roll into the back of her head if someone uses more than five words in a sentence. She hasn’t been to her hairdresser in almost three months because she can’t sit without searing pain shooting down her left leg, and she’s not allowed to drive because her pain meds, which barely work, make her a hazard on the road. That is a woman who cannot put on her own pants; a woman who has to stay home from church and then proceeds to throw a selfie party with half-finished blankets.
I didn’t even set up the blanket with its right side facing the camera!
So, yeah…surgery today.
Recovery is supposed to take 1-2 weeks (am I ever loving the age that we are living in!), so be patient for new posts.