The long dry season

For those of us in blended-family land, it’s been a long, long summer. I never exactly know how to feel about this particular season. My husband and I are the primary parents to our massive brood of kids; but come summer, visitation schedules change, culling our herd. How would I describe it?

By the school year’s end I am ready for his change. Not ready to say goodbye, per se; just ready for the hubbub of studying and finals to end and for the kids to laze and the sun to shine and watermelon to be had. But after a week or so, when everyone is sunburned and waterlogged and filled to contentment, it is time to say goodbye to my boys. The slight reduction of my cooking load and of my laundry tasks and of grocery lists are all enjoyed immensely for at least the first 3 days they’re gone.

I loll. I read. I make a point of doing absolutely nothing, hopefully in the sun, with some kind of flavored tea in a cool glass by my side. The birds tweet, the grass grows, the world around me seems fresh and new. Peaceful. Slower.

And then something weird happens. I don’t know whether it’s my head clearing from the lack of Axe fumes or my vision clearing after folding less laundry; eventually, I sense the slow creep of melancholy easing in. I’m sated and complete, knowing I’ve had my fun. I’ve relaxed a bit: I’m now officially ready for my boys to come home.

And it’s only day 4.

Over the ensuing two weeks, my senses dull; my interest in activities wanes. By day 14 I just want to crawl into bed and read…

…and then it hits me. What am I doing? I have to get ready! Because the boys are coming home soon! For a visit! And I am so overwhelmed with joy and anticipation that everything I say! Or do! Deserves exclamation points! And LOLs and :^) and life is good and filled with all good things like cotton candy and crackerjacks and baseball…

…and then they leave again. And I relax. And by about day 4…

I guess the word I’m searching for to describe my summer is “bipolar.” I’m excited for the summer; but I tire of it so quickly. And then my boys return, and I want time to slow—like it does when they are away—so I can enjoy the blips and glimpses of them as they move about with such purpose in their own teenage lives. And by the weekend's close, I feel guilty cursing the perfectly fine weather and wishing it would rain instead.

This past summer, due to mixed schedules and overlapping vacations and general oddities, I saw my boys once in a 9-week period. I feel slightly broken, like some overly loved and rapidly discarded toy. Like, my brain just doesn’t work right.

I am completely and utterly out of balance.

Except! Except they come home tonight—my sons—they come home for good!... at least until next week, when my oldest goes off to his freshman year of college.

“Woe unto them who have children.” If that’s not the saying, it should be.

Those people

Dear Rude Woman:

I understand that sometimes in life unanticipated things happen. I understand by your agonized tone that you are frustrated and, in not knowing where to turn, you were passed to a person or two before hitting my line. And ultimately, when you did get transferred to my desk, and because I work for a company that provides a product, and because you are our customer, you think it is within your rights to ply me with your bad behavior. You think that through telephone osmosis, I deserve your anger and hostility.

I don’t.

I’m just the person that picked up the phone that literally wants to help you. Snapping at me, berating me, treating me like I am beneath you because I have this job at this desk and have the ability to assist you? What was your mother thinking when she let you leave the house, and go out into the real world with that attitude?

In the blink of an eye and the lashing of your tongue, you have gone from “annoyed individual” to “loathsome human being.” It takes everything in my soul to muster up the desire not to reach through the phone and throttle you. I try to ply my voice with the appropriate measure of patience, but your verbal assault fractures my vaguely rose-tinted veneer, and a hot steamy lava of annoyance threatens to seep through the cracks.

Within a mere 30 seconds of experiencing your cutting words and rude demeanor, in my mind’s eye you have officially moved from “reasonable customer” to the pile I call, “those people.” And honey, just so we’re clear: Nobody likes to be thought of as one of “those people.” Because they’re HORRIBLE.

As anybody can tell you, “those people”

… spank their kids in public and smoke with all the car windows rolled up, despite the toddler in the car seat behind them;
… complain that the food is terrible AND that the portions are too small, besides;
… ride their bikes without a bike helmet;
…always cut in line at the grocery; and
…give back-handed compliments like, “You aren’t as fat as you usually are.”

(As a side note, my mind has dressed you in a tattered, hot pink polyester bathrobe with curlers adorning your fried-pewter hair, both of which you wear everywhere. ALWAYS.)

Rude woman, I am angry at you. I am angry that you dripped your bad attitude all over my otherwise delightful day. But soon my personal embarrassment has slid from anger to sorrow. Was I rude back? I think I may have been. I know, in my heart of hearts, I wanted to rip the curlers form your head and throw you into an ice-cold lake so your hot head could cool off. And if you somehow heard those thoughts in that tiny pea-sized brain of yours? Well… I am sorry.

But moreover, I’m sorry you were rude to someone—all the someones here at my work—who tried to assist you, and didn’t measure up to your standards. I do promise we’ll try harder for the next person.