This is me.
An embraceable, glorious mess.
or, maybe,
a messy, glorious embrace…
I committed to a writing challenge put out by Live Your Legend’s Scott Dinsmore. He has a slick TED talk. (I love TED Talks. This might be the way to get me in the sack – wooing me with TED Talks. A TED Talk playlist is my trendy version of the ol’ mixed tape.)
Annnnyway… I digress.
Writing challenge. I am a writer. Who only writes in her head these days. And that’s really, really not ok.
So, my inaugural post here on the Dirt Farm is my ambivalent effort to follow through in spite of it all. It’s also kind of a rant and whine. Because ya know? I’m allowed. You’re allowed, too. Just in case you didn’t know. Or, in case you felt as though you needed permission.
I’m going to try to be recklessly brave on this little blog. I hope to not be purposefully hurtful, but, I hope to say the things I keep to myself and honor those pieces of me that don’t get to see much daylight.
Here’s my recklessly brave thought for the moment. I want sympathy. And pity. Not a whole lot. Just enough to validate that I’m not crazy for finding this life so damned difficult. I don’t want to be told to count my blessings because I’m actually pretty darned good at that. No. I want the freedom to need sympathy.
Tonight my friend set aside tickets to go to the opera. The opera in my town is a pretty small scale gig. The venue is a school auditorium, if that gives you any sense of scale. But, how cool is it to have something so “upscale” be so accessible?! (My little town is crazy-assed awesome for all the neato things to do here across the board.)
My boys and I got there on time, found our names on the will-call list, and got settled into nice seats about 5 minutes before curtain.
And then my seven year old gravely, urgently announced he needed to use the bathroom.
The same bathroom he’d just used prior to coming in.
I sent his older brother along. He didn’t stay along long. He came back bearing the old vomitrocious news.
Yes.
Puke.
My little guy was busy hurling up his dinner in the boys’ bathroom.
Three minutes to curtain.
On our first opera.
That my friend reserved tickets for me.
Sigh.
Here’s just a smattering of the blessings lest you think maybe I’m wrong when I say I know how to count them.
We have an accessible opera. I have a friend who will get me in for free. My boys accompanied me willingly. There was a close toilet for my little guy to employ for his gut emptying. And, he made it. My older son was a trooper, accompanying the little brother to the bathroom where I can’t go. I got the news BEFORE they shut the doors. We left without disturbing folks.
See? Lots of blessings.
But really, I’m bummed. I just want sympathy that my kid is sick yet a-freaking-gain and that I missed out on a neat opportunity.
Feel free to shower me with your understanding pity. And, if you want, you can share some of your own sadness in the comments. I’ll feel appropriately sorry for you, ok? Unless you’re a jerk. And then I won’t.