Oh geez, the guilt. Here I make all kinds of big promises to myself and others, and totally renege. Is that how you spell renege? Help.
But it's symptomatic of what's going on with me these days, which is, I think, a big, cosmic sigh of relief after the last six months of Mali and moving. I am breathing out these days, and my shoulders are slowly retreating from their usual position around my ears, and I am spending whole days just swinging in the hammock with the boys and contemplating the weeds in the vegetable garden. Or the deer in the vegetable garden; we have a deer couple who stroll on through in the afternoons and eat the corn, the lettuce, and the heads off the hosta. I am, in short, sliding into my usual summer torpor with even more speed than usual, and blaming it (the torpor, the speed, whatever: I can't even be bothered to match pronouns to antecedents) on let-down from the move.
Problem is, I really need to, like, keep doing laundry and cooking and buying the boys some shoes and getting them haircuts and cleaning the turtle tank and balancing the checkbook and all that good stuff which I usually do almost without thinking about it. Now every action seems to require a great deal of pondering, and even when I do launch on a project, it's liable to founder halfway through as I take off on a snake hunt with Rabbit, or give in to Urplet's demand for cuddles. All of which is fine, but the refrigerator is starting to look like a New York bachelor's and the boys have run out of clean underpants, and the bittersweet vines (think kudzu) are eating the paddock fence, the apple orchard, the raspberry canes, and the grape arbor. I need to get a move on.
In other news, TTD and I go in for our individual homestudy interviews this week, him on Tuesday and me on Wednesday. I'm curious about the kinds of questions we'll get asked, and the kinds of answers we'll give (because of course we'll compare notes). Do you think I should mention the fact that TTD is actually a CIA operative, or should I let him disclose that himself? Do you think he'll reveal my strange addiction to chewy sugar (SweetTarts, Hot Tamales, Sprees)? And what do you think they'll make of it all?
Because it's odd in the extreme to contemplate an outside observer stepping into our family and assessing it--assessing US. The Agency and our social worker are very clear that we are not being "vetted" so much as being invited into a process or on a journey, with The Agency and the MSW as guides who can point out traps and dangerous spots, hand us maps and reference books, and explain the terrain and what kind of shoes we might want to wear. Still, I find it hard not to be a little anxious that we will somehow be found wanting, pronounced not good enough, declared unfit. Because isn't that every parent's fear? That her best will not be good enough for her children?
I know, I know. I didn't say this was a rational thought (or post); I'm just expounding away as I am wont to do. But think about it. How much would you clean up your house for the social worker's visit, for instance, and what kinds of things would you do while she was here? Humph, said the camel.
I just heard the Rabbit, who's playing with trains in the next room, say, "Mama?" When I said, "Yes, buddy, I'm right here," he said, "Oh, I know where you are, and I don't have any questions for you. I just wanted to hear your voice."