June 2011


I feel as if my home is maturing.  We’ve been in this apartment nearly a year, and the pictures and furniture are settled into their places, and there’s nothing I really need anymore.  This weekend, I’m handing down my son’s desk to my nephew, and I’ll need to get him something new.  Something taller.  Oy.

The last few weeks J has been walking this line between surprising maturity and confusing regression.  One morning he’ll be fighting with me about something stupid and by the afternoon he’ll be clearing dishes and offering to help me with things.  I wonder if the fighting is somehow part of the struggle to leap to the next stage for him.  I hope that’s all it is, because I can’t take the attitude much longer.  In the meantime, he’s pushing forward with his desire to be more grown up and responsible, which I can’t fault.  He asked me for an allowance and after some contemplation, I’m giving him one.  We agreed on the chores (2 weekly and 1 daily), although he wanted to do more.  I don’t want him to set himself up for failure.  I told him that he’d get more chores as soon as he turned 10, which appeased him (who has these conversations with their kids – really?).  I wonder what’s got him so focused on this – is it just the age or something more?

I’m working with him on a few things this summer around the issues he has in school: executive functioning, work completion, and social interactions.  It sounds like I’m making a project out of him, but really it’s simple things.  Getting him a clock and a timer to help him understand time better.  Doing crafts with him so he grasps the end-to-end feeling of finishing something.  Bringing him to the beach so he can play with kids his age.  Teaching him typing to help him get his ideas down on paper faster. 

For my part, I need to step back more.  Let him develop that inner voice (the one that says, “go brush your teeth” rather than “go pet the cat”).  Let him work things out on his own.  It’s hard to do. 

Is that part of my maturing?  Probably.  As is learning to work from home.  As is trusting myself.  Not worrying so much.  Acknowledging my feelings even if they’re dumb.  Hell, feeding the cat cheese is a sign I’m more relaxed about things than I used to be. 

So it goes.

The dust has settled.  The show is over.  The lights went down.  It was beautiful and challenging and awesome and thank god it’s done.  I’m back to inhabiting my apartment (it’s cleeeeeean!!), paying attention to my child, and doing things that don’t involve memorization and go-go dancing.

Althought I miss the go-go dancing.

So what’s new?  Well, the other day I got a bikini wax by a woman who believed strongly that I wanted to be more hairless than I said, which happens to be the most intimate, painful, and hilarious thing that’s happened to me lately.  That in and of itself should constitute a blog, but I don’t want to scare the menfolk.  Let’s just say I’m all ready for the beach. 

I’m dating!  Mentally- and emotionally-balanced men!  Who like me!  Which is sort of thrilling.  Dating to me is the process of meeting men and determining who is cool enough to spend my time with weighed against how much I want to rip his clothes off.  Usually the latter is directly proportional to the former, which is the reason I haven’t had a relationship for a while, but have enough stories to keep the other women in my future nursing home entertained.  I’m giving myself credit for being open-minded.  In the meantime, I’m celibate so that I can actually focus on not just defaulting into sex.

Defaulting into sex.  I like that.

I’m still trying to socialize, which is harder now that I work from home.  I get out to the local coffee shop sometimes, and walk around the town a little.  I know more people.  I’m still searching for real, bonded friends, but that only happens with time, I’m sure.  The pianist and drummer from the show I did are joining with me to form a lounge act.  We have a rehearsal Sunday.  I can’t wait.  And neither can you.  Admit it.

I don’t know what I’m doing lately that’s making a difference but I’m much less stressed.  My jaw doesn’t hurt, my wrists don’t hurt…I’m pretty damned happy.  Maybe it’s the sunshine.  The pending summer.  Dragonflies.  Novels.  I don’t know, but I’ll take it.  I feel like I’m riding this wave of my life and water feels cool, the view is great, and there’s no end in sight.

(I know it’s a crappy metaphor because I can’t swim.  Or surf.  But maybe I’ll learn.  So there.)