I am digging out from under a pile of work that built up during this most recent pledge drive--our most successful October drive ever, by the way--and I thought I'd drop in to say Hello.
Hello! The pledge drive is still on my mind, of course, because its remnants are scattered all over my office. We took 119 pledges on nine phones during the last hour of the drive (Car Talk), and things were insane. I still have a minor case of PTSD from all the ringing phones, and the sound of the Car Talk banjos makes me want to cry, but it's all for the good, and I'll survive.
The Boy is surviving well, too. His casts are off, and he's back to soccer and hand-writing his school work and playing his precious Xbox, so he's a happy camper. He's also happy because his dad and I have agreed to let him go on a school trip to France and Spain in June. He's thrilled, of course, and I'm thrilled for him--it's going to be a great time, and a great experience--but I'm pretty sure I'm going to need to be in a medically-induced coma while he's flying. I know it's irrational, but he's never flown without me, and . . . I can either protect him with my Magic Mom Powers or go down with him if we're together, but this way FREAKS MY SHIT OUT. But I accept that it would be selfish to cheat him out of this experience because of my anxiety attacks, and deposits have been sent in. His passport is being renewed, and the trip is a go.
According to my mother and various other parents whose children are my age or thereabouts, this worrying (if you're the kind of person inclined to morbid worrying) never goes away, no matter how old your kid is. Great. Nobody told me that when I signed up for this parent business. Oh, Waiter! Could you bring me a Xanax sandwich and some Bourbon soup for lunch, please? There's a big tip in it for you!
Okay. Nice seeing you all, but I have to get back to work.
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