I am Mama’s Boy

Sometimes it helps just to call a spade a spade.

I can’t blame the boy for his struggles. He is me. I am him. Except when he is his father. There’s some of that, too. He’s either going to set us up in the nicest nursing home EVER someday or wind up in a prison where we can’t even visit him. At this point, I must admit I’m hoping for the former.

I feel like a mess with nothing but the calendar to attribute it to. At midnight on August 1, as the calendar fluttered to the new month and the clock changed, I think I felt my eyes shoot open in sudden and overwhelming stress.
This was not the case last year? What is my problem? In fact, it’s been several years since I felt like this.

There are a lot of changes this year. Our oldest goes to middle school, though truthfully the worry here is minimal, as he is not having to go to a humongous, hormone-infused public middle school. Thank you, Lord, for that one. The younger three, however, are starting over this year at our sweet little neighborhood school. This will be great, I feel sure. But we know no one. NO.ONE. Not them. Not me. We will walk in cold and start from the ground up.

To top it all off, SquishyKnickers is a kindergartner. Noooooooooooooooo. In about 2 weeks, you may hear a wail ascend and wonder if it is just the crickets or the wind. It will probably be me.

If you hear something strange and disturbing today, that might also be me. Back to school shopping.