Tuesday, February 07, 2012
Till the cows come home
We are still waiting for Ian.
Yet I am caught up in some sort of blurry twister, the kind that blows across the field, sucking up red golden leaves and swinging them round and round in its super swirling vortex before dropping dropping them, breathless and dizzy, and moving on.
I feel as if I have tipped the scales towards overload somehow and I can't remember at what exact point I lost control. I've got a nasty cold. I feel tired all the time. Getting myself up and the kids out each morning feels Herculean. And the kids and the horses and the dog and the firewood and my blogging committments..... I never seem to be done or satisfied or finished, or ahead. I can't remember the last time the girls bathed. They don't smell too bad. And I never remember to badger Esther to practice her violin or do her homework. She is getting it done, not the violin part, but not as eagerly as she was before Christmas. She's flagging as well, I think.
And Isla, always begging me to read to her just at that witching hour when the fire needs to be started and the horses and dogs need to be fed and the dinner needs to be cooked, but first I have to clean the kitchen to find the sink and stove because I've been sitting at my computer most of the day. And I am so happy she is finally, finally into books and sooo guilty when I have to tell her, again, no I cannot read to you right now because if I read to you right now there will be no dinner to eat. There is no one here to fix our dinner aside from me. I'm all you got and if I knew how to read and cook dinner at the same time, I would, but I don't so I can't.
I'm not exactly Demi Moore, yet, but sometimes I feel as if I can totally understand how easy it would be to just snap like that. To feel as if you are so far in over your head, or have climbed way too high and only just now, after all this time, bothered to look down and what you saw, how small everything looked down there, and how vulnerable you felt swaying up there in the wind, terrified you.
And the temptation to just let go and free fall, yield to the currents, is real and everpresent.
To let the dishes pile so high in the sink and the clothes so high on the laundry table and the bills so high on the kitchen table and to just say "screw it, come on kids, let's take the credit card and go out to eat and then go to New York City and see some Broadway shows, then let's not go to school for a week and go skiing every day instead. That last idea is kind of a joke considering the pathetic and extremely depressing lack of snow. Unless, of course, we went to the French alps....
And isn't it funny how my fantasy includes, rather than threatens to run away from, my children, so well trained am I at being their only hope at survival. But the fact is, I need them. They keep me from getting lonely, from feeling too sorry for myself. To think that Ian isn't even getting cuddles from a child is to realize that I have the better deal here. I don't care how much sleep he is getting, I would die if I had to be away from these kids that long. Die.
This place is drier than a popcorn fart. The land is crusty. Parched. Brittle, like my patience lately. The poor horses have sore feet from walking on their own frozen hoofprints. There is symbolism there, I know it.
Every snowfall we get is just this teasing, non-committal one to two inches that always leaves the pointy ends of the grass poking through as if to say, na na na na na na, you can't smother me.
How did I get back to snow again?
Anyway, I realize, looking back to my last three weeks of Momformation blogs, that I've written about lice, what a mess my house is, and the confession that we are habitually late for school. You might be wondering if my confession that I'm downing two bottles of Fat Bastard pinot noir or, possibly, doing whippets, every night is coming next. But, remarkably, it isn't. I've never been into drinking alone. A tidy night cap now and then while I'm doing some late- night blogging, maybe, but really, I find no joy, or escape, in alcohol. I'm too concerned about how fat I'm already getting from all this sitting and no ice hockey, no cross country skiing, no nothing much of anything, really, other than bouncing up and down on my ball/chair and squeezing my glutes. That and dancing with the girls and the painfully sporadic, yet fulfilling, 8 a.m. walks with my neighbor.
Oh yes. I started this post to say I mailed Ian's completed Immigrant visa application yesterday. It only took us a month to get it all complete, included the translation of his French criminal record which was all of one sentence. If I knew how to say "nothing to report" in French, I would tell you that is what it said.
So now, all we can do is wait and hope and dream of one day being reunited as a family again. Esther has gotten really antsy. She keeps asking me every day when Daddy is coming home.
"In a week?" she asks.
"No," I say, irritated.
"But you said..."
"All I said, was, maybe the visa center will review the application this week and then Daddy will get his interview appointment in Paris and he can finally come home. I did not say he was coming home in a week and I'm sorry if that is what you were hoping but it's just not true."
One day later:
"Tell me again when you think Daddy will come home."
"Soon, Esther," I say. "Soon."
It's like asking when it's going to snow.
I just know it.