heeeeere am I floating in a tin can...faaaar above the world

I am in a surreal place, not physically but in every other sense. It's late, and I am playing Single Mom this week. D is in California, playing a Production Assistant for the XGames. I kid you not. It's a long story, how he got this gig, but suffice it to say he has needed clean underwear every ten minutes, seeing all his skateboard idols up close and personal.

I am wondering, as I often do, how other single moms manage nutritious meals for their children when it's so effing bloody hot that going outside to the car to get groceries is like signing up for a mission to the Sun. What A had for dinner was chicken nuggets, "S-punch Bob fwoot snaaaacks" and a handful of Rice Chex. No real fruit to be seen. I was ashamed of myself but I let him eat it anyway. I had bland Trader Joes Asparagus Risotto (needs garlic), and went to the site, "Pimp my Snack" to relieve the boredom. It didn't help that their food was even more appallingly non-nutritious, since I really wanted to eat the forty-centimeter donut instead. So did A. Plus I am feeling crappy.

After A went to bed, I spent an emotional couple of hours reading other people's blogs, mostly people in Baltimore. There are some great writers out there. And not far out there, but right here in The Greatest City In America. I wept several times as I read about a dear grandma dying, a teacher who has MS and goes to New Song, and a woman whose birthday is so close to mine, and has been poring over her old diaries like I do and has such a quirky gift for words:

truth is, whenever i think of the early nineties
your face comes up with a vengeance
like it was yesterday

Today, that face did come up with a vengeance, walking from the ATM at St. Joe's to my Doctor's office with my copay, and it made me sad. It also made me want to blow up the Motel on Joppa Road next to Papa John's. No particular reason.

So I am left here with competing thoughts. One, I am so tired I could die right here and I need to go to bed. Two, what is my motivation for writing and for anything else I do? Three, what should I do with my life now that I have grown up? Four, will I ever rid myself from feelings of Insane Ambition To Be The Best Everything I Decide To Be? To be a Professional--whatever? I got back from the Knit and Crochet Show thinking of myself as a Published Designer, which is technically true, but what does it matter? There are thousands of people out there floating in cyberspace and designing schtick and posting it and selling it and the whole nine. Do I want that? It seems like it would be a pain in the ass eventually, and I'd let it lapse like so many other things I start. I enjoy writing so much, but can't I just allow myself to get my kicks out of it without feeling like someday I will be the Best Writer Ever and have my blog turned into a Real Book that will be the EW pick for the week and on and on? It really is delusional, a textbook case. When I was teaching, it was the same thing: I wanted my students to name their kids after me and produce the next bloody Picasso. I wanna be adored, as the Stone Roses said.

Yet. I have felt an incredible apathy, almost as strong, about pretty much everything except crochet. Most days I feel like I wouldn't mind never painting again, never slogging through another class I didn't want to teach, living a quiet Mom-life and not creating more stuff to do and more things to think about. I would likely shrivel up and die if I did that, but sometimes I think it would be nice not having ninety projects and/or thoughts going at once. All day long I am thinking about everything, and lately I haven't stopped when my eyes finally close. I just keep thinking about former colleagues, nuclear holocaust, having terribly disorganized workspaces, dealing with difficult people, trying to figure out how to make a supportive bra without underwire. I'm wiped out.

Now that I have a child and I am officially not allowed to be selfish, things take on a whole new aspect. I don't want to think about my life as waiting for him to grow up enough so I can be insanely ambitious again, the holding pattern of waiting for naptime to have interests beyond him. I don't want to be the absent mom, in body or in mind. But playing with playdoh is only SO interesting, drawing Batman the same way in six different colors...*sigh*. I need to learn to be in the now, and not keep thinking into some grandiose future world that will likely never exist. Not to cease being a dreamer, but to keep those dreams from disappointing my reality, if that makes sense.

What definitely doesn't make sense is how bloody late it is (early, I should say). More later I am sure.