Roses rambling

I'm tired.  I'm sick and tired of handling de-tails.  I have handled details

all my life and I am no longer a detail person.  I want to handle de-heads

for a change.  De-tails are usually hooked to the hind end of a donkey.

        For all my married life,  I have been handed the little things as my

lot in life.  I relieved my whole family from the minor things,  the things

that are so annoying and yet so necessary.   I made excuses for them,

and they accepted my detail work as if it were my duty to complete

things for them.   Well, why wouldn't they?  I didn't complain, I only

sank lower and lower into the quicksand of my own making.  I do

enjoy my martyrdom,  that is until I reach the boiling point and rebel.

They know me well enough to read the signs of rebellion and back

off.  Well, this is one of those times.  Time for petulance.

         I always felt good about freeing members of my family to pursue

higher callings than mine.   My husband worked two jobs and still

made time for family activities, so who was I to complain about doing

the little things around the house?  I would have felt like a dog if I hadn't.

Education was so important to me that , as a good mother, all that  my

children had to say was ,"Oh, Mom, I can't.  I have to study!"  Or " Can you

help me with this paper?  I have so much homework (or a test,  or a game

or.......blah, blah, blah)  and I'll love you forever if you can do this ."  LOL! 

I'm not throwing up the times I made special costumes or altered uniforms

on short notice,  until the wee hours of the morning.   No,  most mothers

feel honored to do those things for their children.   I am talking about the

thankless jobs that never get noticed until they suddenly aren't done for

a while. 

      For example,  I had pneumonia for the month of April.  At first ,  I said

it  was just a chest cold or bronchitis caused by allergies.  But the cough

worsened  with pain under the shoulder blade and in the chest.  I finally

had x-rays which showed congestion in both lungs and bronchial tubes.

No wonder I could not breathe.  If I slept, I awoke gasping for breath.

Mainly,  I had no energy.  It dropped out the bottom and I spent most

of April on the couch.  Instead of spring cleaning, (much needed, I may

add), everything went to pot.  And I was too sick to care.   My son was

very concerned,  hauling me back and forth to the doctor, but it was a

busy time for him at work,  also.  No complaints from him about making

do with light meals,  take-out food and little housework.  Not until I got

better.   (He knew I was better because he treated me to a shopping

day as a Mother's Day gift.)  The thing is,  I got spoiled.  I saw that

life could go on without me trailing around completing tasks.  I could

shut my eyes lying on the couch and not see the dust bunnies and the

winter weary walls.  I realized that I could make my life simpler and

enjoy what is left of it.  I think I relished the shocked look in his eyes

when he said he was having guests and I told him he'd have to

prepare for them.  (He not only prepared for it , he cooked a wonderful

meal, also.)  He is also helping me with some heavy cleaning.

        What I am wondering is this:   Did I do my family a favor by being

available to do menial tasks for them or would they have managed just

fine without me?  Did I cheat them early in life by not forcing them to do

simple chores and complete tasks so that they could form habits of

everday living that they would do by rote later in life?   Did they depend on

me that much or did I just want to feel needed that much?    These are 

all questions that I may never answer.  I probably will not change,  so

why should they?   I know as well as they do,  that after my pouting spell

is over,  I will insist on returning to MY OLD WAYS,  unfortunately for me.

However,  I wrote this poem while I was still seething in self-loathing and

guilt.  I can just see him if he ever had a chance to read it (which I hope

he doesn't ).   He would pat me on the head and say,  "Oh, my little Mommy,

let's have you a pity party.  Okay,  where do we want to go on vacation?"

How can I stay peeved at him when he is such a good son?  I guess it

is better to be in charge of details after all.   Think I can be bought?

Since I used up so much space venting my frustrations,  I will put the

poem in the next entry, which I will finish after lunch.  Just keep this one

in mind when you read the poem, and you will understand,  I hope.   Pat