The fork in the road came early last year- when I read a comment on her Facebook page - hoping she'd never go "crazy like her sister and have kids." Oh, don't be alarmed. It goes MUCH further and deeper than that - moreso than a blog entry would allow... but that pretty much sums it up. Not to worry. I know I need a good therapist. I am still proud of her and her accomplishments. We just pretend we don't know each other now. Yes. It's superhard. But that's another story.
So for the past year, I have been thinking alot about what it means to be crazy.
Crazy. Hmm. Here is what I have decided....
I have waited thirty-one years to find my Crazy. It turns out, crazy is the most blissful, joyful time of my life. I celebrate every day... every day full of sippy cups, dirty diapers, jars of baby food, teenage attitude and missing dance shoes. I talk about missing dance shoes alot in my life. That is because there is always one missing. Indeed. That's another post for another time, and I think I have decided my ten year old is grounded. Ahh... I do love writing.
Crazy is the best thing that has ever happened to me... Crazy means morning walks pulling a two-seater wagon behind me... holding hands with not only my best friend - but my soulmate. Crazy means taking two girls to the mall shopping, only to wonder midway through if I will survive until we reach the car. Crazy means planning matching outfits and Christmas photos. Crazy means grocery lists, meal plans, clean kitchen floors and oh yes, setting the DVR to record episodes of "The Young and the Restless," which I will not be able to sit down and watch for at least a month. So no spoiling.
Crazy is not as glamorous as I might have imagined... it has meant one pair of flip flops this summer rather than twelve... it has meant less haircuts and color... being okay with the now noticeable gray hairs... and onl one bathing suit, which does not make me look any skinnier. (Sigh) I have less purses now. And I think I am okay with that. For now.
Crazy is a schedule for six people that runs like clockwork. Crazy is holding it together when someone doesn't take a nap or eat a meal as planned. It's the seven loads of laundry my teenager brings to the clean laundry room stating she has 'cleaned" her room. It's the eight shirts I find, folded and and unworn, in her dirty clothes basket. Crazy are the hours at my house from five p.m. until approximatley eight p.m., when all children must somehow be fed, bathed, taxied, picked up, dropped off, reassured and tucked in. Simultaneously. THAT is some kinda crazy.
Crazy is looking back at the end of each day, when my head crashes to the pillow, and laughing. Because really, we have no idea how we survive everyday.
Crazy has taught me about what the super important things in life are... and what they aren't. Crazy has taught me that love and life are not always perfect. Both are complicated and filled with impossible choices and decisions. At the end of the day, the best we can do is look back and not regret anything. It has taught me that families and siblings are far from perfect and that my world is far from fairytale. Crazy hurts. Crazy laughs. Crazy smiles. Crazy cries.
When I hear the sounds of happy - the ones that come from the dinner table when the babies are clapping and singing, when the teenager is asking about her thirteenth outfit change, when the ten year old is recounting her most recent boy drama... I am reassured that "crazy" is a fabulous place to find myself in every. single. day.