Last night, at 3 in the morning, I heard someone up. Turning on lights, faucets, flushing the toilet. And then, Iz appeared. While Jack popping in for a middle of the night visit is a common occurrence, I can't think of the last time, or any time at all really, when Iz showed up and said she needed Jon. Jon? I asked what was going on and she answered, "Joe's out." Joe, as in our hamster. The hamster that I gave in to after much begging and sobbing. The caveat was that I would have nothing to do with his care. And that if he ever escaped (I'm a screaming on chairs if there are mice in the vicinity person), he was out. But, he's escaped many times. After much experience, Iz is now a hamster whisperer and she and Jon got him back into his smelly cage. Smelly, because, yet again, a weekend went by when no one bothered to take apart his habitrail and clean it. That was supposed to be a weekly project—it's now down to every other weekend but realistically it's 2 weeks plus by the time they get around to doing it. With constant reminders from me. But that's another story.
I was up at 3 because I couldn't turn off the dreadful week I was about to head into. I now apparently have let go of all hope and positivism and my dark side is running rampant. FLOW goes on sale tomorrow (that note for the one person out there not already aware of the fact). This should be a week of celebrating, a week of reveling in this HUGE accomplishment but instead, every day is filled with extra juggling, organizational challenges, and more for me to stress about. Tomorrow: on sale day. Knowing I'm having trouble taking a deep breath at the moment, my shoulders twisted into painful-to-the-touch knots, unable to eat most of the time, I thought a massage at my favorite spa, with my friend Heather would be the perfect thing to do. As I sat down to schedule, I realized Jack gets out at 11:30 for parent/teacher conference day. I figured out a playdate for him, until 2. Then I'll have him until his conference at 5 and a PTA meeting for Iz, crosstown at 6. Wednesday? No school. I have 2 kids at home which means I won't get anything done except mediate, chauffeur back and forth from play dates and mostly likely lose my temper. Thursday? Jon heads off for a business trip. It's close to where his sister lives, in Ohio, so he'd planned to stay a couple of extra days to visit. That means I'm a single parent until Sunday. While he's watching his niece perform in a local play, I'll be sleep-deprived (I can't sleep when he's not here), and frazzled to the point of breakdown. Projection? Absolutely. I excel at that.
We had gone to bed early, trying to catch up after a couple of too late nights, but as I lay there it hit me. This, aside from giving birth, was the biggest event I'd ever been through. As I ranted and raved before we went to sleep about him being away exactly when I need him here most, he said that since none of my other book releases were a big deal, he didn't think this one would be either. Shit—if not now, when do I ever come first? That was the final straw. There was no way I could sleep. I realized then that, yet again, I'm in this by myself. That this huge accomplishment for me is a not a game-changer for anyone else. My expectations of pomp and circumstance are a pipe dream. If anyone's tooting horns, it's me. And that my current level of stress and angst will only make my regular life worse. This morning I was already brutally ripped into by Jack, who's stance is that my focus on FLOW makes me the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD. Last night, as I stole an hour of much needed solitude getting a pedicure, I received my first ever "I hate you" text. The sender will remain nameless but let's just say tween drama figured in.
My stomach is in knots. My hair is waving uncontrollably. I feel exceedingly fat but while not being able to eat anything. I crave my regular schedule, but there's not a day for the next week when things will just be normal. Right now I have to be super human when all I feel capable of is a dramatic crash and burn. But, I can't do that. Who would do the laundry?
Day 37 is feeling really sorry for myself.