The other day I was complaining to Jeremy that I’m not fun anymore – that maybe I had lost the ability to enjoy things for no good reason – like root beer floats or just goofing around or doing some silly thing or another. Everything in my life seems to have a purpose or a goal or something (I know this isn’t really true). First, Jeremy apologized that he has been kind of a downer recently and therefore, not conducive to fun and second, he reminded me that we are still in the middle of a pandemic that – you know – makes things not fun.
I mean, we are doing stuff. Jeremy is traveling (right now, he’s in Minnesota). Vince and Edda are in school. I’m working and hanging out with people. But I’m still wearing my pajamas most of the day (OK, the whole day) – I’ll go on walks and Edda pickup in my pajamas. I wonder if I’ll be in regular clothes ever again. I’m still not extending or receiving invitations to gatherings as freely as before. Jeremy and I spend SO MUCH time together. so much. It’s a lot.
I’ve been thinking about Edda turning 18 which she will do in March of next year. It does give me grief of sorts – I didn’t realize this, but it matches the same year I turn 50, I try not to think about it too much. I don’t like these transitions that happen, like I’m going to have to switch her from the Children’s Hospital to a regular hospital or from school to a day program. These things are not things that I want to do.
Vince is far away from me, but calls to check in. It, for sure, is a different kind of parenting. I’m like a mama bird who is easing its baby chick from the nest knowing the ground is far away and can be hard, but you can’t fly without trying.
What is fun, anyways? I have no idea.