The Neighborhood of Make-Believe

You see, I don’t WANT to blog about getting fatter and sleepier and less interested in, well, pretty much everything. I don’t want to talk about going to bed pretty much immediately after getting Soph tucked in (at 7:30). I don’t want to talk about the 2 pairs of pants that fit me, and money being tight-ish, and so not having the desire or the means to go buy more. I don’t want to talk about getting to school, late (again) and sitting here, forcing myself to do the minimum—the bare minimum--to keep my classes afloat, fighting off sleep every second, every second, and then giving into the urge to close my eyes and feeling sleep creep through my brain, settling for a 2 second sitting-up nap, though it would so prefer to climb under the covers and sleep, ahh, sleep all all all day.

I don’t want to. But on the other-hand, I don’t want to let the blog go completely. It’s been part of my life for more than a year now, quite considerably more, actually. That’s an investment. I still want SOMETHING to be there when I wake up some day. Maybe I’ll just blog about what I wish I was doing and feeling instead of what I’m actually doing and feeling.

Woke up at 5:00 this morning and went to the gym. Did an hour of step aerobics and a half hour of yoga. Man, that new size 6 sweat suit I bought from “Not made in a sweat shop by 10 year old South American children, and not made with materials or dyes from any endangered plants and animals or that compromise the habitat of any endangered plants and animals, and not involved in anyway with global corporations who are responsible for mass murders and wars in the Congo or Somalia or any other African country over some random mineral necessary to make electronics, and not shipped using any fossil fuels which are ruining the planet for all humankind, especially your daughter” is certainly comfortable. After my workout, I came home and fixed a lovely organic breakfast and Soph, E, and I all sat down together over our whole grains and lean proteins. After breakfast, Sophie dressed herself, brushed her own teeth, and thanked me for getting rid of the TV because she much prefers interactive activities that are good for her cognitive and motor development to 90 minutes of Playhouse Disney each morning. When I arrived at work, looking very smart, slender, and professional, I might add, I arranged the differentiated learning activities, and prepared to be a facilitator who inspires and guides her students toward learning.

Why not? Soph seems to be able to live in her own little fantasy world with no particular trouble. Lately, she talks not only about her imaginary friend, but her imaginary friend’s immediate and extended family. We went to see the hot air balloons of the Sky Festival early one morning over the weekend, and she informed all assembled, in much seriousness, that her imaginary friend’s grandfather has a hot air balloon and that he takes her for rides in it all the time. I’m charged with strapping the imaginary baby sister into her imaginary car seat each time we go anywhere in the car, and also am expected to carry the imaginary baby seat into the store, and secure the imaginary baby sister in the shopping cart. Every now and then, Soph shrieks that her baby has fallen out of the cart, and I then rescue IBS (Imaginary Baby Sister, not Irritable Bowel Syndrome) from the floor, and strap her back in.

Her imaginary world extends to school as well. Apparently, the teacher had to sit Soph and 2 of her cronies down and ask them to stop playing their imaginary games (based, I think, on The Nightmare Before Christmas, Soph’s current fave) in the classroom, because they were getting way too rowdy and interrupting the work of the other students. As reported to me by the teacher, Soph sat, nodding, listening, seeming to get the idea. At the close of the little chat, the teacher asked, “Do you understand girls? Do you have any questions?” Soph’s little arm popped into the air, and when called on, she asked, “Um. Mrs. Esplin? Could you be the witch?”

Today’s best thing about being a mom:
It forces you to get out of bed in the morning.

Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
It forces you to get out of bed in the morning.