Yesterday, I was concerned to find myself spun around by spending the afternoon with my tween. Sure, his injury meant that I had to interrupt my work on two consecutive days–plus loose some sleep–But why couldn’t I relax into our time together?
Are we that mismatched?
Is he that difficult?
Have I enabled such a challenging personality?
Or is it me?
With grown children, am I so accustomed to days spent alone, that an afternoon at the doctor’s office–and a “date” at the bakery–is too much parental contact?
This morning it all becomes clear. As I face the messes in the kitchen and shout to my son to chase after the bus, I realize that I am completely–and inexplicably–unglued.
And then it hits me:
Someone has taken over my flight. It was a covert operation yesterday, but this morning–it is a total coup.
My plane is banking left and heading sharply toward the ground.
This explains everything. I’m about to get my period–and I’m 46–a potentially “lethal” combination.
Where is that Red Tent when I need it?
When the school calls to tell me that my son did make the bus–but adds that I’ll have to come in to administer the antibiotics he needs— I want to cry.
Instead I pull down the oxygen mask and prepare for a rough landing.
I’m back in the pilot’s seat–and that makes all the difference.