The frenetic life has somehow become my necessity, not choice. Saturdays and summers were once my own. I swore I would never be a free-wheelie mom, but here I am, dreaming of the compulsory hiatus of a flat tire, or an empty tank.

To: tripupmom
I called Triple A again. They promised at least a half-hour wait. When he came, I was sunning myself on the hood of the car and he complemented my shoes. Sometimes immediate online response is not all it’s cracked up to be. T.

I try to remind myself daily that for now, this is my road.[1] This detour in my life—continual craziness—will pass by too quickly and soon I will be sorry that I didn’t appreciate the view and savor the entire journey.[2] Still, I can’t help wondering how close to the curb I’m cutting and which direction the curve ahead will take.

To: thatsritch@take.out
I sat in traffic today while the children chanted, “We’re late; we’re late. It is our lifelong fate. My Mom is driving. Sorry mate! We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.” I do this joyously, right? T.

Like any rut or pothole, it’s hard to gauge the depth of the depression ahead while skidding toward it pell-mell. Not until I’ve careened through it and turned around to look back at the whole, can I really understand how deeply I was in.

Reality Bite: Maybe oblivion is not such a bad thing after all.

[1] …as my Mom reminds me, lest I forget.
[2] …and therefore there is no sympathy to be had down that avenue.

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