Tripping

When my son, Zac, was little, his toys would inevitably land in the hall outside his playroom door. I would sometimes wake in the night, or early morning, and stumble blurry-eyed through that hall to the bathroom. “Shit,” I would mumble as I tripped on a car or truck and I would keep lurching forward over it.

This is how I feel now.

As I make my plans to transport my life back to the coast, I constantly trip on Zac’s stuff on my way to my destination. “Shit,” I mumble as I trip over where he wants to go, what he wants to do after graduation.  In my head I have a little rant going on that says, “I have told him a thousand times that he needs to take care of his stuff…” Only this time I can’t just bend down and pick up the offending objects or even kick them out of the way.  This time I can’t make him move his stuff.  I have to leave it where is and keep moving onward around it …or let it stop me in my tracks, losing momentum towards my destination.

It would be an easy excuse to use Zac as a reason not to move to California “right now.” I have been having moments of indecision about timing that sting like the unexpected impact of toes against Tonka. Ouch. Shit. Surprised that it hurt that much, I jump around for a moment, then I’m fine.

Thank God nothing’s broken.

My plan is still in one piece.

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