fragile

It is the hardest thing to admit, even to myself, but here it is: I'm fragile.

I'm floating along happily in my life, knowing that my house needs a few more walls painted and maybe a little TLC here and there. I call up a couple of contractors to get a sense of what work and money are involved in a potential reno of my back room. It doesn't look good. And whamo! I'm not floating along happily anymore at all. I begin to worry. I'm hurt. I'm scared. I'm anxious.

It happens in other areas of my life, too. I think things are going okay, then the smallest things derail me.  With the back room, I could just shrug and say, well, that will have to wait. But I don't. I fret. I wonder how long it will take me to get there. I worry it'll never happen. I actually worry the house will fall down. Good gracious, how did I get to be like this?

I realise that I'm still recovering. Still getting my feet under me. Be gentler on yourself, my friends say. Don't try to do it all. But if I don't, who will? How in the world do people do this on their own?

The poor kids wonder why I'm suddenly teary or silent or frustrated. They offer hugs. Those hugs go a long way, kind of like glue for the soul. To mend this broken mama.