Today I found moldy bread in my pantry.
Not, like, bread with a bit of mold on it.
More like a plastic bread bag filled with mold. If the bag hadn’t said, “Sara Lee 100% Whole Wheat” on it, I’d still be trying to figure out why a fuzzy green stuffed animal was placed in my pantry and asphyxiated with a plastic bag.
It’s symbolic, I feel.
Representative of my life.
It speaks to my faltering ability to prioritize my time. Remain organized. Stay on top of things. Eat on the days that the kids aren’t with me at dinnertime.
Right now, my focus is on the children and my business.
Obviously it’s on the children. I’m a parent.
The business? I’m good at it. It gives me purpose. It gives me an excuse to get out of bed every morning, don cute work clothes, and go help a family who is functioning less effectively than mine.
Plus, divorce is expensive. Period. Even with a co-parent who is generous with his income. I suspect we’re both feeling the pinch of the division of assets, the obtainment of legal advice, and the maintenance of two households.
Which brings me to the topic of the house.
It’s a nice house. Meant for a physician’s family. With all the help and services that a doctor’s income brings.
The thing is, I’m no longer a member of a physician’s family.
But I continue to live in the house.
And I can’t keep up with it. Cleaning it. Keeping it in good repair. And at some point, I’m going to have to pay for it too.
(I’m not complaining about that, folks. So don’t write and fuss at me about it.)
Plus, I have no idea how to fix the broken stuff. And as the months go by, there is a lot more broken stuff.
I can’t even keep it mice-free.
At some point, I’m going to surrender.
And the house will be sold.
I’m not going to go down without a fight, though. I’m determined to make it until the summer, at least. Maybe even to the following summer.
I don’t need a house like this. No one does, really.
But two nights ago my girl asked, “I love our house. Can we always stay in this house?”
I wonder if she’s heard me fretting. I don’t think so, because it’s hard to fret when you live in this nice of a house and not sound ridiculous.
Oh, poor me. My house is too big.
I think I should stop writing now and get back to work.