I am the former trying to convert to the latter.
Worrying, it seems, is embedded in my DNA. I’m not sure I can escape it.
My grandma’s service is tomorrow. I’d like to crawl under the covers and hide. But I can’t. I’m worried about it. Like mad. But how does that change anything? It doesn’t. I’m well past the hiding from monsters under my blanket days. Even if that’s exactly what I want to do.
My oldest son, the sensitive one (well, the most anyway as they all are), took the news of her passing particularly hard. As I knew he would. I put the discussion off longer than I should have because starting that conversation just seemed too hard. Having it was worse than starting it.
I HATE those helpless parent moments. When I can’t offer a good explanation or kiss the boo boo and make it better.
I’ve felt wretched off and on for the whole week, really. On edge. And a bit (or a lot) snappy. I have that anxious, skin crawly feeling I get when I need a long walk, or to get lost in a book, or zone out at the thrift store, or sew all night. I don’t know.
Right now, I need to finish my quiz and get us ready for tomorrow. Whether I want to or not. And I really, really don’t want to.