Last Tuesday was my youngest baby’s first day of Kindergarten. Several times in the last couple of weeks I have grown misty-eyed over this fact, but I have not and will not cry. I decided it would do me no good and likely do me all kinds of harm. I was born, rather unfortunately, an ugly crier. When I tell people this, many of them say, “Hey! Me too!” I’ve heard that before. You may THINK you are an ugly crier, but the world is a relative place and compared to my ugly cry, you are radiant. Trust me.
We are in a new place, at a new school, trying to make new friends. I can’t afford that kind of ugly.
So I didn’t cry.
Instead, I cleaned. I scheduled myself to clean for my older friend, Mr. J., which last Tuesday was both necessary and very helpful. Upon arriving, I unloaded my stuff and chatted with him for a few minutes about life and the joys of nursing calves and hard water. Then I settled into my normal routine, which always begins in the hall bathroom. The fist thing I always do is open the shower door to survey the hard water damage of the last two weeks. From first sight, I know what I’m up against. This day was different. This day had a pink striped towel hanging over the shower door. When the door swung open, I could see through the frosted glass–lurking under the cover of this damp towel–the largest, most evil spider my eyes have ever seen in a non-Discovery Channel setting. This was a real spider…up in my real grill.
It was horrifying.
I didn’t scream or slam the door.
But I did bolt, sort of cat burglarlike.
I was going to get Mr. J.
But wait–he’s 90. And he has a couple of broken vertebrae in his back right now. I can’t ask him for help on this.
But I have to, I thought to myself.
I had to.
The next few minutes were a bit like a medicinally induced weird dream. There I was, cowering in a 70-year-old bathroom while a 90-year-old man danced around in his shower doing a smack-smackety-smackdown with a hairy spider. He was armed with only a flimsy fly swatter and his courage.
At the end of it all, I said a sheepish thank you and went back to cleaning.
As I wiped down the shower, I thought to myself that I could do it if I had to. Next time.
To test my courage, I volunteered to use a walk behind bush hogger on a fenced in horse paddock that had grown wilder than the Montana back country. The plants and small trees were 7 feet tall.
That was yesterday.
When I get off the meds and can use my arms again, I’ll write about that one.
I’m not on meds. That part was a joke.
The rest of it wasn’t so amusing.