On Wednesday evening, I came to the crushing realization that I am not, in fact, Super Woman.
I know, right? Shocking.
Because really, I totally thought I was rocking the tights, the cape, and the giant ‘S’ on my chest with complete aptitude.
When I came home that night from doing homework at the hospital, I went to say goodnight to my son, and was told in no uncertain terms that my giant ‘S’ was drooping.
His exact words, “Mom, you’re totally looking old. You have huge bags under your eyes.”
I’ve bitten off far more than I can chew this semester with fulltime studies, four children, a household, and a husband who works late hours.
But upon hearing those words, the unmistakable proof that my cape is indeed fraying, “Mom, you have huge bags under your eyes!”, a distinctive sound could be heard echoing in my head.
Of course I didn’t admit to anybody that I heard this sound.
It was probably my imagination.
Maybe I had stepped on a wrapper? A twig?
Something made that sound, but it certainly couldn’t have been my marbles rolling out of my ears onto the floor.
Marbles, come back!
I need you!
I have a six-page paper due in two days!
I smiled a weak, watery smile, said goodnight to the little
douchebag darling, and did what any mature adult would do in this situation: I called my mommy.
She informed me that yes, there does seem to be a small run in my tights, and maybe it’s time to hang up the uniform for awhile, and put on some flannel pjs.
In her wise words, “You’re not going to be any good to anybody if you break down.”
So I followed her advice, and with a heavy heart, I withdrew from part of the nursing program. I’m still attending theory classes, but I won’t be doing any hospital work until January.
So the next few days I’ve sort of been meandering along, sort of lost, sort of not.
I’m doing a lot of sleeping.
I’m doing very little homework.
And throughout all of this, my husband is looking at me through worried eyes.
“Are you ok, sweetie?” he keeps asking.
“Why do you keep asking me that?” I say.
“Because you seem so fragile.”
Dude, I could bench press you.
I don’t say this, because honestly, I like it that he thinks I’m all needy and special.
I’m never special.
I just fly around up up high in the sky, delivering very intricately decorated cupcakes to classsroom birthday parties – because I’m a show-off like that.
I zoom through the street, a flash of hot pink (you don’t honestly think my tights and cape would be anything but hot pink, do you?) arriving in the nick of time to cheer this kid on at a volleyball game, then that kid at a hockey practice, then this one at a dance recital.
With the speed of light, I zip over to the school to meet the teachers.
…I’m not going to list the many activities that make up the day of every mother out there.
But suffice it to say, there are a lot, and now, apparently I look fragile trying to accomplish these.
I’m good with fragile. It makes me feel all kitten-like.
I don’t feel like I have to hold the car up with my bare hands while Wayne changes the oil.
Nobody expects me to go for a run with the dog because I’m fragile right now. I can’t run, I might trip on my pink fuzzy slippers.