There’s that saying, you know. Picking up the pieces. But when I got home from work today, Friday of a long weekend, after a long week, a long day. Well, anyway, I walked into my life at home and had to immediately start picking up the pieces. First, the pieces of the $150.00 turtle tank, which had shattered while Peter and Joseph were fighting in their bedroom, just five minutes before I got home (and I would have been home sooner if it weren’t for the traffic jam on 26) while Silas was downstairs paying the appliance repairman $75.00 for telling us that our stove wasn’t worth fixing. Happy weekend, Rhonda.
But then there are the figurative pieces to pick up. Peter is at a lower point than ever. Joseph begged to go to a friend’s house, just to get away from everything. So that’s where he is right now. Peter is asleep (it’s 7:45pm) because I wrestled the laptop away from him when he refused to do his on-line lessons, so he figured there was nothing left to do in life but go to sleep.
I could erase all this. Maybe I will. Who wants to read my sob story, right? I’m supposed to make my life seem funny. And the weather was very nice today. Maybe I should restrict my comments to the weather. And we accepted an offer on our house. And that’s great. I hope we don’t break the house before the escrow period is over with. Like we did the turtle tank.
It just doesn’t all seem very funny. But I won’t erase it. It seems to me that one has to stare these things in the face, these not funny things that happen to us. Stare them down, and walk forward, believing that the next steps will be there.