Spilled Milk

If I allowed myself a moment to wallow in self-pity, I know I would cry. The tears are right there...threatening to spill over whenever I dwell on it. So I try not to think. What's done is done. Just move on.

But for just a sec I'd like to wonder why it always seems like I'm the freak. Why do all the big events in our family life seem to come along over the busiest weekends of the summer? Why couldn't I have a NORMAL job...you know, one like Dan's where I have weekends off, and Memorial Day, the 4th of July and Labor Day are holidays that you actually look forward to?

I loved having Jamie and her family home but hate feeling absolutely exhausted by all the crap going on at work while she was here. I feel terrible that I was so tired at the family reunion that Saturday night that I know I must have looked like a zombie, the walking dead just going through the motions. I hate that I could hardly hold up my end of a conversation with friends that came to see them while they were in town, that I must have seemed rude, or worse—upset they stopped by.

I thank God for my sister, my nieces and Jamie who stepped up to help with a bazillion little chores right before the company arrived. I owe them in a way I know I can never repay because I can't even find the words express how much their helping hand meant to me, to thank them for throwing me a lifeline just when I was heading under for the third time.

My sister—she's amazing, my hero. She's also the one person in my family who's been in the business and has some clue what kind of hell is going on at work the week before Labor Day. I guess you could say that, although it's been a while, she's walked a mile in my shoes and some things you never forget.

I know, this entry is rambling, kinda like me at the moment—still reeling from the punches like a drunk man. But I'll find my footing on solid ground before you know it, and the world will slowly settle back into its proper perspective.

It always does.

Right?

— Robin