I have been feeling so unbelievably overwhelmed lately that it is like the rest of my life before this was underwhelming and dull and filled with long absences-of-anything and moments-of-supreme-boredom, which I do not really believe for a moment. There have even been a couple of moments of weeping in the car, and one monumentally embarrassing moment last week of running out of a tile shop because I was about to start not merely weeping but actually sobbing. With snot and everything. Because bathroom tiles are really, REALLY stressful.
And then I sat down to write a family Christmas letter which I know is terribly bourgeois and all that but frankly, I am middle-aged and married with kids which probably makes me terribly bourgeois. And I have no time and have not caught up with many of my friends all year which means I kind of owe them a roundup.
And I was ok with writing about what other family members are doing and all that generally fun stuff, and then I got to me and I tried to write it and I went HOLY CRAP I HAVE DONE A LOT THIS YEAR. And then I freaked out a little bit (= quite a lot) and then I realised that actually it was all good because it means that I am ALLOWED to be overwhelmed.
Which is probably the first stage in a 12-step program, right? Except not the AA kind of 12-step program because I don’t think you’re meant to give yourself permission to be an addict. And I am seriously contemplating wallowing in it. And maybe bribing the Bigster, who is on holidays now, to take her sister to school on Friday while I sleep and sleep and sleep. (unless the builder is there … or the cats … or the postman delivers something …)
Anyway, what I am overwhelmed about at the moment is the bathroom, because things are still going wronger and wronger. And my mother, who has breast cancer and is going a bit nutty from chemotherapy and ringing me three times a day. Or maybe I am going nutty from her doing that. And my brother, who she doesn’t really ring at all, which is probably good for his mental health but less good for mine. And my dad, who is in a nursing home close to me and needs visiting and love and affection. And maybe furniture. And the Bigster, who is still sick. And Otto, who is adorable and sometimes nuts, and always wants attention right when I am having a “my brain is full please let me process something” moment. And the cats, who wizzed on all the clean washing so I had to re-wash it. And there was a LOT of it. And Fraser, who is lovely but wonders why I never have any time. And my experiment going back to a couple of small work projects, which has been a dismal failure and has seen me actually working 4-5 days a week the last 2 weeks (and until 3:30am today). And the house, which is even more of a disaster area than ever, not helped by the Absence of Bathroom. And (ex-) work perhaps not actually realising that I am really not working there any more and asking me to do a small project NEXT WEEK as in the week before Christmas. And not earning any money except for these projects, so Fraser doesn’t know whether to be cross with me for working or for not earning anything, and neither do I. (We are over this now. We are both cross with me for working so I am stopping.). And the garden, which is completely overrun with weeds that are, quite literally, stronger than me.
There are some funny stories buried in the stress, like my mother and the online banking app. I’m sure that will be funny in oooh about fifty years or so. And the builder telling me the tiles we spent three hours tracking down were the wrong size. (They are NOT.). And Snowflake’s big escape through the wall of the bathroom. And the toilet story which I have told before (emptying and cleaning it, however, was NOT a funny story). And dad and the set-top box. And the water tank that was going to cost more than a Miele oven! And the Miele oven that I didn’t buy. And the
vegetables fruits and herbs that Otto and I planted (Fraser is worried because I bought “vegetable and herb” potting mix and he thinks that might be enough v-word to trigger something). And the crazy nutritionist with the squillion dietary supplements. I think perhaps I should invent a sort of half-life for these moments – a way to calculate how long it will be before they stop inspiring either murderous rage or cold sweats, and instead become funny. But in reality it’s probably about two weeks. Or two days, depending on who I am talking to and whether I am drawing a flowchart about it.
I haven’t even got my head around Christmas shopping yet. I did, however, buy shoes. They are Spanish, and wearing them is like having my feet caressed by the downy wings of baby angels. Even the Bigster approves: “Mum, you are allowed to buy me these shoes if you like.” They don’t quite make up for the tiling issues, but they sometimes come close.
And our toilet still flushes. I am grateful every time.