I Have No Idea About The Color of My Parachute.

Joel fell out of bed last night. His bed is a mattress on the floor, so there was no damage done that a kiss and a re-tuck couldn't remedy. He was back to sleep in less than a minute. 

I wish I could say the same. I was awake in bed, listening to my mind sing its evil little song  from 2:30 to 5:30 AM. It's like getting a super-annoying song in your head, like "Who Let the Dogs Out?" or "Smooth Criminal."

By the way, I know I just did that to you. You're welcome.

When I can't sleep, I hear a nonstop, extended slow-jam of the timeless ditty, "Someday you're going to have to go back to work."Usually, this song is sung by the Chipmunks, because that adds to the madness. Just once, I wish my bedtime neurosis would be sung by John Lennon. 

The plan has always been that we will get by--somehow---until both boys are in school. Then, I'll go back to full-time employment. The most logical way to go would be to return to teaching. I would make decent money, be on the same schedules as the boys, and I'm good at it.

Yet, the thought of it, at least at the wee hours of the morning, fills me with dread. I'm tired of it. I don't want to grade stacks of essays in the evenings. I don't want to ever teach anybody about a thesis statement EVER, EVER, EVER again. I don't want to listen to a principal drone on about meeting Annual Yearly Progress in all targeted sub-groups. I just don't.

I ran through some ideas in those early hours:

1) Have another child, to prolong the inevitable. This is a terrible idea on so many levels. We have no room. I don't like babies. Paul doesn't want another baby, either.

2) Homeschool. It's fine for many. However, to steal my own comment from Tracie's blog: "Some people create learning communities with their children. If I was to homeschool, it would be something out of Apocalypse Now." The horror. The horror.

3) Try to get a job as a technical writer for the federal government. Could I? Could I seriously sit in an office all day writing memos for the Department of Agriculture?

4) Write the Great American Novel. Ah, yes, but that would involve not being lazy. 

5) Sell Mary Kay/Tupperware/Pampered Chef/Creative Memories/Sex Toys/Jewelery.... I can't. I don't have that saleswoman instinct. Bless your heart if you can, because those woman are  business moguls. Seriously.

As you can see, I found no magical answers despite my fretting. Yet, things look less dire in the morning light. After all, it is four years away. Things will be different. The boys will be different. These things always work themselves out.

Besides, in a world where beautiful things like this grow from simple brown seeds....

 ...I simply choose to believe that there is a plan for my life, and it will bloom in a surprising, delightful way.