After a bitch session, like the one I had the other day, I usually like to follow up with some humor or irreverence; perhaps a list of music, to use T's suggestion, that "[gets] the blood pumping when we're pissed at someone"...
For the record, T., there are far too many to list, but I like the cut of your jib. Feel free to play along. Let's start with one from my list of favorites - Mother Mother by Tracy Bonham. Gets me every time. I played it for Chicky the other day and she thrashed in all the appropriate places. I don't know if I should be proud or scared.)
... Or maybe another story about my daughter's fascination with my vah-jay-jay...
She still insists on calling it my bum, and though we have not had a repeat of that day's "name that furry animal" game, now she just looks at me as one would a simple person. A look that says, "Okay, Mom, sure it's not your bum. We'll just pretend like you're not making up words. Vagina? Sure. That's a word." Insert eye roll. She's not, yet, rolling her eyes but it is implied.
... But I can't bring myself to write about such mirth and frivolity because that is not my mood. I've sat down with monitor in lap a handful of times trying to put something down - mainly so the cursor would stop blinking at me, blink blink blinkity blink - but the fluff would not come. And then I thought, Hey! Wait a minute. This is my blog. I can be as heavy as I want and if I come across as a total downer then so be it.
The job is getting me down, my friends. It's not the job exactly, because should the time come that something that only takes me about 3 to 4 hours a week to complete starts to get me down I'd like you to hit me with a frying pan. No, not the job but my direction in life, and that means from a working stand point .
Chicky, though still needy (oh my lord, so needy), is not the wee babe she once was and this trend will continue. As much as I try to stop it, she will get older and more independent. Where will that leave me? Alone, with my dogs, watching the Food Network. I'm baking bread, people. I'm cooking meals that don't have their beginnings in a cardboard box. Someone stop me!
(And don't be so quick to say Have another baby! because that is part of this bit of navel gazing, but I am reticent to get into that right now.)
Yes, there is the business I'd like to start, but the fear is paralyzing me. Let's set aside the fact that once my current bosses (the soul sucking beasts) will trash my character to everyone who will listen once they catch wind of this endeavor. Let's put off the fact that all my time and money will be sunk into this business. Let's not even think of my lack of personal life once the ball gets rolling. No, let's not consider those things - because I just might throw myself in front of a bus if I dwell for too long - instead let's go to the root of the problem.
The possibility of failure.
I do hate to admit that failing is even an issue, but it is. New businesses fail every day at an alarming rate. The one that I'd like to start is, if we're being honest with ourselves (and by "ourselves" I mean me), a luxury service business.* Not everyone is willing to pony up the money for such frivolousness. I don't think it's frivolous, but I know many others do and if there are more of them than there are of me and those like me than I am, in a word, Screwed. Royally. Up the pooper.
Sorry, but failure is not pleasant. Not even if you get off on that kind of thing.
If I fail (If oh God If please just be If) then I'm out of options. I'm not exactly employable, especially after spending the past four years working with my four-legged friends, then being a SAHM, then throw running a failed business into the mix... Can't you just see that resume on Monster.com? The potential employers will be beating a path, I tell you. As far away from me as possible.
So there you go. My dreams are holding me back from bringing them to life. But they are such lovely dreams. Dreams full of wet noses and sloppy kisses - and poop and hair and bookkeeping and creditors, I know - but lovely dreams that I have held and loved and whispered to. Dreams I have nurtured and fed bits of cake to. If they were to be killed I would be crushed.
I wish I could tie all of this up in a pretty red box and leave you with visions of hope and rainbows, but I can't because my prescription for lithium hasn't been filled yet. This is scary shit. I feel like I'm looking at it all with my hands in front of my eyes, my fingers barely letting the vision through. I can't let this fear, like my overwhelming fear of heights, keep me from making the big leap, if you catch my thinly-veiled metaphor.
But I'm going to need a really big push.
*Forgive me for being vague again, but The Google. Is still out there. Looking at me.