Poetic Referendum(s) On Life

Wishy Washy

Okay, I'm going to try. It has been over a month since my last confession, father. Father?

Oh well, I've been kicking around story ideas and trying to stay away from the lure of poetry. In the meantime, I'm in and out with a review here and there and trying to lend some help when I can where it is needed.

My personal life could be better. I'm idling here, looking at all different paths I could take. Each one seems to cancel out the other and my head starts spinning and I leave the room.

I have so much on my mind, so many distractions, and no way to sort out some of the stuff that comes my way. So I try to latch on to projects that appeal, that I can handle at the moment and hope for the best.

Ever get like this?

I feel guilty for not doing more around the house. My wife works full-time. I stay home with Maddie and get Alex to and from the bus stop and that's about it. There are household chores. I'm expected to cook once in awhile. I wash and fold laundry, and sometimes put it away!

I don't handle the bills or the checkbook, per say. There's a lot of little tasks around the house. There's a lot I could be doing. But I'm just sitting here staring at my computer, thinking or not thinking.

It's like I'm waiting for something to happen. Some great inspiration, notion, idea. And just two days away from my wife's birthday. I've made no plans, have no gift, frustrated because I'm afraid I'll screw that up, too.

Okay, pick myself up and try again.

I'm sitting at this computer, thinking how I should be spending my time. How best to budget it. I haven't a clue. Maddie goes down for a nap once a day. I could get something done then, but I'm so happy to have my mind to myself that I want to treat it to a TV show or computer game or a nap of my own. Why is parenting so exhausting?

I think it is because I am not proactive enough to plan out my day, activities for Maddie, things I could do that would make for a complete schedule, like a train running on time, like a real job! Oh yeah, one of those. I'm used to working under that umbrella that provided me the creative outlet to exercise my mind and body with menial, logical tasks that followed a certain order, a pattern that allowed my critical thinking to have it's assurances I'm sane.

I'm not sane.

What should I do? I can't go out there and try to find another job. I've contacted the Council for the Blind and I am on a waiting list to get into a program that will help me locate and get trained for a job that I am suited.

How about writing? I'm blind. That's ridiculous. I can't write. Can I? Now that's more like it.

Ah, so what do I write? I need a boss, an editor. I need a lead on a story, an assignment. I need a routine, a clean desk with sharpened pencils and notebooks. I need a laptop I can take anywhere to be alone with my thoughts. I need, I need...and what have I got? I wishy-washy brain that is decaying and rotten. I'm not good with change.

I think I need someone to bail me out. I want to look to my wife, but she has no interest in most of this stuff. She would like to help, but we have so little time together. She would like to see me become a successful writer, but not at the expense of family and homelife...sort of. I'm not sure. I think I get mixed signals. I don't think she really thinks I can be successful at this. She says she supports me, but like I'm chasing this goose that I will never catch.

She would like me to be Mr. Mom. I can do that. It's not as fulfilling or rewarding, just because I've got to be the disciplinarian, dictator, rule the roost. It turns me into a psycho-Dad.

I just want to play on the floor with blocks, watch TV and pretend to be their horsey. What's the harm in being a softy? It means more work for my wife? Oh, yeah. That.

So here I stand at an infinte crossroads. No traffic to get in the way, unless you count all the speeding thoughts flying out of my head, running back and forth, disobeying every traffic rule like a bunch of confused drivers.

I think I'll sit down and wait this one out. Maybe get a little sleep. What? It's past my bedtime. Again? I do this every night. Waiting for something, one thing, that will let me see the light at the end of the tunnel. Literally and figuratively. Lord willing, the day will come.

God Bless!