…tenuous balance

I’m not the only person who trashes the van; but I am the driver and somehow that makes me ultimately at fault. I am just too busy for the biannual detoxification. I vow that after the last cleaning that required superfund certification and a 16-horse shop-vac, (I love those vacuums that suck up the dog and come back for more) that our days of eating en-route were over.

But life happens, and the trips stretch from here to eternity. The tormented toddler creates a solvent that weakens my resolve and I crack and then desperately grapple in my purse for stale crackers to fling over the backseat to the salivating screamer, who is buckled in for his safety and my sanity.

Hello me,
Mom always said, “He who makes the mess cleans it up!” How does that work? I haven’t figured out the details, but I love that idea and I’m adding it to my mommy mantras… It’s me again, T

I’m not surprised that immediately upon making the mental effort to delve into the depths of my vehicular filth, that it is just about then that the husband subdues all of his manly impulses and opens the door of the minivan.

When he is bombarded by the stench and the avalanche of detritus, he feels it is his therapeutic duty to add to my pile of guilt with his own form of belated intervention. [1]

“How can you, a sentient being, drive a vehicle in such a state of disgust?” he wonders out loud (much too loudly).

That’s what I get for going there—for mentally opening this whole disgusting bag of worms, but I have already been there and over-rationalized that, and I give him the summation of my intricate analysis: “It’s easy if I sit on only one cheek with the tips of the fingers barely touching the steering wheel. Then I don’t end up stuck to anything or with anything stuck to me.”[2]

To me, bizzy me,
Sorry, had to run in the middle of the last net-note. I left a child at preschool again, and I’m screeching off to pick him up.
“Mommy you promised,” he sniffs as he sits in the back seat gazing numbly out the window while he sucks his bottom lip.
Guilt ridden, I anguish out loud, “I gotta stop promising things I can’t produce!”
The oldest daughter overhears and responds, “Or, you could start producing things that you promise.”
Too busy and thinking again. I hate that! T.

When I run out of ready retorts and I find myself inching along the precipice—the very edge of sanity with one foot flailing, I remind myself that my feng shui of happiness is centered in finding peace and serenity amidst uproar and chaos.

To me,
I want the newest option for the vehicular straight jacket—the inclusion of a muzzle. I’m all for mandatory restraining devices in vehicles, for everyone up to and including fifteen-year-olds. T.

I practice on that balance beam, a strange version of yoga that is adaptable to every occasion. If I breathe deeply, cross my eyes and hum my calming mantra eerily off key, it seems that problems (and people) go away and I am pleasantly surprised by my balancing act at day’s end.

Reality Bite: I came through it all and didn’t strangle anybody.

[1] He has delayed ESP—extra sensory perfection, maybe Book Three?
[2] Lighthearted flippancy is preferable to howling hysteria.

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