Friday night I was pissy. I can’t explain why, I just knew that I was feeling defeated and unsatisfied, and unhappy. There was no reason really. The week had gone well, mostly. My life is pretty good, mostly.
My best friend said it was my gypsy soul. Via text she counseled me that I’d always feel a bit unsatisfied on this earth because I’d always have someplace else I felt the need to go. That’s daunting.
Saturday I woke up to a few emails reminding me of my failures, or opportunities lost. Call them what you will, they pushed me deeper down. I shopped in the pouring rain-three stores for cake flour. Stupid Jersey. I came home to exercise, and nearly fainted. My anger confirmed my thoughts on this program. It ain’t for me.
Then I was reminded of something about this day and I got mad at myself for anything other than pure gratitude.
I baked a cake. The Girl’s tenth is coming up soon so I baked a cake for Sunday dinner. It was a tricky recipe and I was nervous at first, snapping at the kids to get out of my kitchen, when all they wanted was to hang around to lick beaters, as all kids do.
Thinking not of my own baby but of Anna’s Jack, I settled into the motions of baking and I could feel all of my anger and frustration release. I moved from muscle memory around my kitchen realizing as I reached out of habit for things that this place must be starting to feel like home.
It was a few hours where the failures didn’t matter. It was a few hours where I was good enough. It was a few hours where I had everything I needed and wasn’t I so damn lucky that I was right where I was supposed to be-gypsy soul and all?
At the end of my time in the kitchen, I stood over the sink and could hear all three kids playing a game in another room. All three. Getting along . There were giggles and some yelling, but it was all good fun. The Husband was home. The kids were happy. We were dry and warm and whole. Our lives, were very, very good, mostly.
There’s the gratitude. I knew it was under there somewhere.
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