You know, I expected this whole random acts of kindness to be nice and uplifting for David and I. Instead it feels more like a burden and something I’ve saddled myself with and I’m left thinking, “What was I thinking?!”
Tuesday was planned to be a day where David and I would go to Dave & Buster’s and attach paid game cards to the machines. For those of you who are new, Dave & Buster’s was where Brielle had her first Father’s Day. It sounded like a great idea. I was genuinely excited at the thought of blessing others on a day when most would be stressed, anxious, and nervous over the election.
But when I couldn’t find my jeans in the piles of wadded up clean clothing mixed with dirty clothing and had to put on my, I can barely move, skinny jeans I was about in hysterics. However, hysteria would require breathing and that wasn’t really possible.
This compounded with, “Do we just tape the cards to the machines? Do we hand them out? No, that’s weird. Do we print out a message with them? Would anyone read them? Does it matter? Do we write the blog address on the note? Is that like advertising? That’s weird, right? Why didn’t I plan this out sooner? What in the world is Brielle Bear going to wear?”
Dogs barking. Everyone’s hungry. Bernice doesn’t understand why we want to do things for Brielle and is confused.
I finally threw my hands in the air and said, “This was supposed to be a fun night and instead it’s a nightmare!”
We stayed home. Bought Brielle’s birthday dress. Ate chicken noodle soup and watched the news. And for an hour I was mad at myself. I wanted to do this right. I wanted to make something good out of this whole situation.
But I had to step back and think about what was realistic and what was best for all of us today. And I had to be honest with myself, I took on more than I could handle. I took on a bunch of good things, but just because it’s a good thing or a good idea doesn’t mean I should do it.
So I’m just going to do my best. And really be kinder to myself, for crying out loud Brielle died a year ago, and I’m running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off and then I’m feeling guilty and like I failed.
Brielle died, I don’t need to be super woman, I just need to take a chill pill. Now if someone could just smack me on the head every morning and remind me, that’d be great.
Oh, and my jeans? Found them. They were mixed in with the half clean half dirty Bernice pile, naturally.