There are some mornings in this child-rearing gig when I well up and really am thankful for the job. Then there are some mornings when, simply to cope, I feel compelled to shove down maybe a dozen deep-fried apple fritters followed by a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ONE Cheesecake Brownie.
Doing the right thing day in and day out is tiring, unglamorous and highly overrated. Yet that’s what me and my single-sistah-mommies keep choosing to do. I’m not at liberty to discuss details here, or name names, much as I’d like to, say, from a rooftop with a bullhorn, but I sometimes get weary of being The Anchor. You know, the one who keeps everything level and safe and moving and responsible and, well, anchored. Sometimes it really hits me that anchors live a life of unseen servitude while nestled silently in centuries’ worth of fish dung.
Or maybe that’s just how it feels this morning.
During the long slog of trying to raise our kids to be fit to roam the world someday, it can feel hopeless. If you’re a divorced mom trying to co-parent, you can find yourself facing seemingly untenable cross-purposes. Seriously: It can make a girl go on a sugar binge.
So, while I’ve got too much work to do to make a fritter run this morning (and I’m sure my butt will thank me later), I am trying to remember my Lamaze breathing and tell myself that we’re only halfway through this very large and important assignment of getting someone raised up right. And that maybe the view from the ocean floor will look a little more promising tomorrow. I’d be curious to hear how you all deal with being in the sometimes exhausting and unpopular position of The Anchor. OK…I need to hear it this morning—humor me, will ya?