Georgia On My Mind

I screamed into the phone- “You don’t understand!  It’s like National Geographic here, and I’m going to lose it.”  That was me, to my husband, my working-his-ass- off -husband who can’t do anything to help me from the hour-long-commute-away- job we moved here for.  I know, it makes no sense to me either, we moved HERE so he could drive THERE, so we could never see each other, we could mutually, silently be tired with each other and the kids could go to good schools. Yes, the homeschool thing doesn’t work as well in Georgia.  My beautiful plan of four carefree, creative, highly-intellectual children going surfing in the Pacific with all of their free time, while gaining their amazing education through the carefully thought-out plan crafted by, you guessed it, ME, just sort of fell apart when we had to move.  When we had to move to Georgia, here, where we know nobody, and we could possibly become scary, alone homeschool people who forget to brush their teeth for a year.  That couldn’t happen.  So off to school they went.  Off to work he went.  Off to, umm, the laundry room I went?  the kitchen?  the hallway with boxes?  the front step?  California in my brand new car with the windows down and a fist raised to those who made me move here?  Sigh, it was just the laundry room.

Palmetto bugs (come on stop it already, Georgia, there is no fooling me with your fake name for your giant flying cockroaches), fire ants who left me with scars from the bites after week one, Argentine ants (now that’s just comedy right there, a girl can’t make that up), mosquitoes, quirky lizards climbing my porch walls, frogs in the pool!  big ones!, long, slick shiny snakes making my children afraid to take their new puppy outside and the spiders, laughably huge.  “Babe, it’s National Geographic and it’s your fault!”.  I swear I didn’t say the last part, but he heard it.  Oh don’t think for one second I am going to turn this bit of self-indulgent writing into great marriage advice.  I have nothing, nada, not one little shred of advice.  I will sit with you and hold your hand and bring you wine or kleenex or a fluffy pillow while you tell me the hurt in your heart from your own marriage, but advice-giving often turns into not really listening, so no advice here.  I might know this though.  I might be able to say this, blaming does not work (unless it is about a bad Netflix choice).  And, boy, was I blaming.  Blaming and shaming.  The worst kind of punishment for a spouse.

I have loved the same man for 89 years, ok not 89 (just 22)  but pretty much.  And while you are married and loving each other for 89 years and you are working and having babies, and more babies and moving, and creating “homes” and laughing and yelling curse words and hurting and loving and pushing and moving again and raising those babies and so on….you are intertwining souls (the good part) and you are slowly, secretly shaving away parts of your own soul (the bad part) to be all matchy-matchy and happy.

Something happened when we were putting back together our Fake Argentina puzzle- I found my soul pieces lying there under that SpongeBob corner piece.  Oops, excuse me, I dropped those.  I’ll just pick those up and stick them right back onto…….oh……..I can’t remember where they go.  And then they got packed into a box on a midnight train to Georgia where the palmetto bugs are flying and the giant spiders are crawling into the corners and the lizards, well, they are just watching me.  They are watching me watching my soul pieces- in that box over there in the corner on the hot, sticky porch.  See, we are daring each other to make the first move.  These particular lizards always seem to have their eyes so wide open looking for something.  Not me, suckers, I’ve got my eyes closed tightly shut, and I’m just getting warmed-up looking down deep inside myself.  So, bring it, National Geographic Georgia, I’ll take your snakes, your spiders, your giant lap-swimming bullfrogs, I’ll take all of your creepiness, if it means I get to slowly start putting myself back together.