Stress and the jar

Tonight a friend asked me how I was, and I said "good." And then we talked for a few minutes and she asked again.

It's not that good.

I'm just a little overwhelmed. It's my students' college application time, which means I'm getting slammed with requests for letters of recommendation. And should they have done it in advance? Sure. Am I obligated to write them? No. But part of my commitment to this career is a commitment to the kids, and I don't like to let them down. So I'm spending all my free time telling EOP programs how involved young Mr. Her is in Key Club and honors classes despite his many disadvantages.

And the house is kind of in chaos, because I haven't had a lot of time to clean since we got back (more on that in the next paragraph), which makes me tense anyway, but I was really hoping to get the house all spic and span so that we could put up a tree this weekend. I love Christmas so much, and usually it feels like a treat, but right now it feels like another thing I have to do.

Anyway, we got home from our trip Saturday evening, and Sunday morning at breakfast, Lochlan got burned. Like... not a little. A lot. Pretty bad. So there was the flurry of running and water and burn gel and phone calls and WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO WHO PUT US IN CHARGE?! Long story short, it's in all likelihood going to heal fine, and although there was some nurse chatter of skin grafts and the burn unit at Shriner's, the plastic surgeon we consulted with yesterday was very calm about it all and dismissed most of those concerns. He said that we need to let it heal, change the bandages, let it breathe, and we'll follow-up again on Monday. I had a few questions for him by email today, so hopefully I'll hear back soon. But despite the fact that this is really a pretty fucked up injury, Lochlan has been his pleasant, stoic self all along. I mean -- he was screaming bloody murder when it happened, but by the time the nurses were wrapping his wounds, he was laying his head against my arm and dozing off.

That's not to say he hasn't complained at all. Every time a new nurse came in the room, he'd announce to me, "She NOT a nurse." "She NOT a doctor." "She NOT a helper." He even tried to side-whisper to me -- despite the plastic surgeon being literally 18 inches away -- "he a BAD man."

Anyway, three doctor's appointments in three days kind of throws off your schedule a bit, so I'm behind the 8 ball on, like... everything.

And changing his bandages is really hard -- he hates it, he complains, he wriggles, and Sweetie and I are both scared of hurting him. If the bandages stick even a little bit and make him bleed, I feel like I'm torturing him. We've been doing it in the morning before work, which leaves me feeling shaky and drained for a couple hours (I know that makes me sound like some delicate flower, which I am normally not, but it's fucking awful).

And I nearly screwed up a field trip REAL BAD, and my best friend's mom is dying, and also have you heard anything about politics right now?

Where, you may be asking, am I finding something to put in the jar?

Exactly here, in the middle of all this chaos. Because as awful as I've been feeling, I know that I don't usually feel this awful. I know that my tense back muscles and my headache are not my typical state. I know that I am generally healthy, happy and relaxed, and that this is situational and will pass. That is something to be thankful for.

Also, Lochlan has been singing Old Mac Donald, but he personalizes it in various ways, and it's funny as all get-out. You would not believe some of the things Old "MickMack Donald" has on his farm, "E I I I I O." Like cars that say vroom, and poops that say poop. So into the jar goes Old MickMack Donald.