I am, I freely admit, a disastrous housekeeper. My house is in shambles, a mess, a bottomless pit of stray socks, random cups, and at least one bowl of what looks to contain the remnants of heavily peppered mushroom soup in the laundry room.
An insane anniversary in my life is fast approaching. A day as a mother I knew would come, someday, but not a day I ever really expected to mark. After 26 years as a parent, I’ve got birthdays, graduations, Christmases, Halloweens, Easters, and even “Moooooooom! I-think-I-got-my-period" days down pat. What's rattling me a little is my son’s wedding anniversary. Yes! Wedding anniversary!
I’m going through “the change.” You know, menopause, the Big-M, the slow, crampy, occasional perspiration-inducing slide into dried-up-uterushood—that is, if you can slide into anything dried up without a reasonable dollop of lubricant.
My kids are driving me crazy. Plain and simple. It's been a long, hot summer, and being up-close and personal, every damn day, with two sweaty pre-teens, a stroppy university student, and an earnest, droopy 24-year-old on her navel gazing who-am-I journey is pushing me to the edge.