An Adventure in Puppy Fostering

This week has had an eventful start. I’ve managed to spend a good amount of time with friends, particularly one who regularly takes care of about five children, two of whom are pretty close in age with Persephone. Her name is Kita and she recently acquired a 2-year-old, half-Labrador/half-Chihuahua puppy.

            She needs to have someone take Milo, the dog, until her boyfriend’s lease ends in August and they move into a house. I thought the person to watch Milo could be me; after all, I have another dog and she could use a canine companion, and my cat is chill enough that it shouldn’t be a huge problem. She’d also told me that Milo was good with other dogs and cats, as well as children, so I had high hopes.

            So, Tuesday night, I took Milo home with me. Before entering my apartment with him, I took him for a little walk and he peed. I didn’t go too far or insist on watching him poop, as it was the end of the day, I still had to walk Baby, and I assumed he had probably pooped earlier in the day. So, I took him inside long enough to drop off his supplies, then grabbed my dog and took both of them outside.

            The greeting process was highly energetic. Milo was all over Baby, sniffing, and Baby was overwhelmed. My poor dog is so timid that this little 2-year-old puppy was intimidating her despite being smaller than she is.

            A few problems arose right away. First, Milo started barking the moment he met Randy. I put him in Baby’s crate almost immediately, to try shutting him up. We put a blanket over the top so that he wouldn’t have any stimulation and he could calm the fuck down in his own space. That was my thought process, anyway. I had to let him out, though, because his barking got worse in the crate. So, I let him out of the crate and put Baby in it so that he wouldn’t be able to bother her.

            That didn’t work. He was restless and would wander back to my bedroom, where I’d hear Baby’s growl arise from his intrusion. I managed to keep him in the living room for the most part for a little while, but then it was time for me to go to bed. Milo seemed slightly improved; he’d been listening to me, at least a little. I left him in the living room and went to bed, letting Baby out of her crate so she could lie next to my side of the bed the way she likes.

            That didn’t work, either. Milo whined, barked, and scratched at my door persistently enough that sleep was out of the question the way I was trying it. Still, I tried until I couldn’t stand the noise anymore and I got up to check on him…

Problem the second, he pooped all over our floor in front of the front door. And I mean all over—it was scattered little-dog poop (mind you, Milo is not an ankle biter; he’s about knee-high to me and I’m 5’8”). Randy had just gotten home and I saw the poop in the front hallway. Randy cleaned it up while I shoved Milo back into Baby’s crate with a new resolve to keep him there all night regardless of how much noise he made.

            Finally, his barking became whining and his whines became fewer and farther between until he was quiet except when Randy walked by. Then, he would growl and maybe bark once to voice his discomfort. I managed to get to sleep and it was glorious. I thought that the morning would be better.

            I woke up and began my day as usual, leaving Milo in the crate. I didn’t want to let him out before I was ready to walk him because I didn’t want him to potty in the house. This turned out to be an all-too-valid fear, as the moment I let him out of the crate—before I had the minute to put his harness and leash on to go outdoors—he peed on Persephone’s toys.

            I caught him the second he started, grabbed his nape, smacked his hindquarters, and shoved him down by his nape so he’d be close enough for a nice strong whiff of his piss. I didn’t rub his nose in it. He yelped and, while I don’t think I hurt him, I did reconsider the course of action I was taking to ask myself if there wasn’t some other way of punishing him for his actions. Meanwhile, I took him and Baby outside while Randy cleaned up the mess.

            This was quite early in the morning; I don’t think it was even 09:00 yet. I walked around the entire apartment complex, thinking all the while that Milo has a great deal of energy and the regular shortness of walks I take with Baby would not be sufficient. I also wanted to make sure he got out as much pee and poop as he had in him, so I was quite pleased when he did poop outside—a decent amount, it seemed, though it could have been more. I learned that later…

            It’s one thing to have a dog who is noisy and needs correction. It’s another to have a dog who seems completely un-housebroken. I took a shower yesterday to take my friend Katherine to City Hall to get her passport. After my shower ended, somehow, both Randy and Persephone ended up in the bathroom with me. When we stepped out, there it was again—

            Poop. All over the front entry. Again.

            Jumbo Chihuahua shit.

            That’s the best way I can describe it. If you’ve seen dog poop, you’ve seen the different ways it comes out of dogs’ asses, and you know that little dog shit looks different than big dog shit. Well, Milo’s shit has the aesthetic of little dog shit, but is on a slightly bigger scale because of the Labrador in him.

            Milo had shit all over my front entryway again.

            I had been considering, while in the shower, giving it a couple of days with Milo to see how things would go. With the second scattering of dog shit on my floor—and the second bout of relief at my refusal to live in a carpeted apartment paying off with the ease of cleaning up animal waste—I realized that watching Milo would be overwhelming, despite my best hopes.

            He had seemed better behaved after the initial pee incident on Persephone’s toys. I thought the pee was just an accident from being kenneled all night and not going potty. When I saw the poop on the floor after my shower, though, I knew that watching him would be too much. I don’t have a yard; there’s no way I could have put him outside. If he stayed, I would have had to monitor him practically every waking moment, watching and waiting on edge to take him outside to avoid indoor pottying.

            I have a lot on my plate. Those who regularly read my blog are aware of this; you’ve read about some of the struggles I face with raising my daughter and getting recognized for my artwork to make money with it. The last thing I need at this stage in my life—in an apartment with no yard—is an animal shitting all over my house all the time.

            So, much to my chagrin but to Kita’s understanding, I took Milo back and explained the situation. Randy was quite angry with the puppy and probably especially angry that he was the one cleaning up the shit and piss. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the puppy, but still I’m grateful for his actions because I was busy after my shower with keeping Persephone in my room with me, away from the dog shit.

            It was difficult having a puppy in my home, but having Milo for the night and morning made me realize how wonderful Baby is and how blessed I am with the animals I have.

Happy News

My mother gained custody of me when I was 7 years old, going on 8. I spent two years with her and moved back in with my grandparents; this is no secret. I lived with my grandparents from 4^th grade all the way through high school graduation, until I left for the military. I even lived with them again after separating from the Air Force and while my little family was homeless after our first apartment as civilians.

            Living with my mother was difficult for many reasons, but one of the biggest reasons was my lack of friends. At any given time, I had one good friend, maybe a second not-so-good friend. This carried over to 4^th grade, after I’d moved back in with my grandparents; I had two friends at Roy Elementary and one of them was a bitch. Their names were Rose and Kaydee, in order of importance.

            Rose was a phenomenal friend; I loved everything about her. She was kind, thoughtful, and friendly; we played with our Barbies together and talked about school and our bullies and crushes. My memory isn’t the best for specifics, but it’s as they say: People will forget what you said to them, but will never forget how you made them feel. Rose made me feel included. I will never in all my life forget that.

            After 6^th grade, Rose moved to Illinois. For a while, we wrote each other, back and forth. Then, one day, my letter came back with a “Return to Sender” stamp on it. I tried again and again, each time in vain, to get the letter to the address I had for her. Every time, it came back, until I finally gave up and assumed defeat. That is, until I made a Facebook account.

            It occurred to me that social media could be used to find Rose. I remembered that she’d liked being on the computer as much as I’d liked it, when we were kids. Neither of us were able to spend as much time as we wanted to on our respective household computers. I thought, If I have a Facebook account, maybe Rose does, too! And so, I searched for her.

            Nothing came up. I searched again. Still nothing.

            Over the years, I searched for her less often, but none of my search results resembled the friend I’d had.

            Until today.

            Today, I typed her full name into the search bar during my lunch break. I was on my phone and I don’t know why, but I suddenly figured, “I’m gonna look for Rose, again. See what happens.” And there she was! The first result in my search was her!

            It has been a long time since I’ve felt such elation. Immediately, I sent her a friend request and a message—a rather enthusiastic message—and told two of my friends what had just happened, since I was in conversation with them at the time. I sent another message shortly thereafter, upon realizing that perhaps the first one might have come across a little creepily.

            At this time, I await a response. I don’t know if or when she will get back to me, but at least now I know I can hope. Now I know that my friend is out there, still in Illinois, possibly working in a library, and I have done my part in finding her. My hopes are that we can reconnect; she was my best friend and we’d both agreed that our only other friend, whom we shared, wasn’t much of a friend at all.

            Now I can rest more easily and perhaps with a smile in my heart, knowing that she grew up and is still out there. If we reconnect and our friendship is still strong, I sincerely hope to visit her, perhaps in June when we go to Indiana.

            For this reason, as well as the fact that I received my paycheck and learned that I will be posted as close to home as is possible within my client’s properties, today was green! I haven’t had such a green day in so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to feel so good. First, I found Rose. Then, I learned that I’ll be posted close to home. Then, I received my paycheck. Then, I received a Labyrinth T-shirt and Horcrux socks from Loot Crate!

            I live in Federal Way, Washington. Nearby cities include Kent and Auburn, both of which have stations attached to the client to which I’m assigned through my employer. The area is called “King,” while the area the rest of my class is going to is called “Paul” and includes Seattle and some areas nearby. The fact that I was assigned to the King section is not only extremely lucky for me, it’s extremely rare!

            This information came from the man who first interviewed me for the company for which I now work. He entered the classroom, spoke with the instructor for a while, and then pulled me into an office to ask me about the breathing difficulty I’d had, the other day. I told him that I don’t think it will be a problem, that I think I’ll be able to wear the ballistics vest for 12 hours without incident and I don’t know why I’d been short of breath. He then told me, first, that he almost never assigns people to the King area; he then informed me that he’d placed me there! Happy news! I grinned from ear to ear, to be repeated upon my arrival home…

            Overall, today was the greenest day I’ve had in a long time. Finding my old friend, learning my posts-to-be, the arrival of my paycheck, the Loot Crate merchandise… I can sleep well tonight, I think, and it’s the weekend! I don’t even have to get up as early as usual!

12.04.2016

Some days, the smallest things must be counted as successes in order to maintain forward momentum.

            Today, I managed to stay awake a little better than yesterday. Part of that may have been because I had the rest of my second energy drink from yesterday, as well as a Rockstar, this morning. It’s relatively miraculous that I was able to stay awake while driving early in the morning, however; it took me forever to fall asleep, last night, even though I went to bed at 20:00. That’s 8pm for those who have difficulty with the 24-hour clock.

            Today, I learned about verbal judo—the art of redirecting energy and dealing with difficult people. The problem isn’t that I, too, am a difficult person; the problem is, I am highly susceptible to being “under the influence”—usually concerning emotion rather than controlled substances, sadly. As it turns out, I’m a better person, generally, when under the influence of controlled substances.

            Although I meant to ride the bus this morning, that didn’t happen. Instead, I drove. I’ve asked myself, why didn’t I do what I had planned? What made me forego the bicycle and the bus in favor of the Chevy? Answers are difficult to come by, but to put it out of my mind, I told myself it was because I was ill-prepared for this morning when I woke up, which means that in order to better meet my bicycling and bus-riding goals, I need to make sure everything is ready before I go to bed. That being said, I have a sinking suspicion that the biggest reason I didn’t get out my bicycle and ride to the transit center is because, rather suddenly, I didn’t feel like it.

            Now, many people might say, “It’s okay if you didn’t feel like it. It happens. Sometimes, we don’t feel like doing things and it’s okay to put it off for a day and get to it another time.” That’s wonderful and I’m not going to say it’s wrong, but I have fear. I fear that my emotions will continue to get the better of me. Perhaps it’s an irrational fear; after all, healing isn’t linear. I can’t just stop having bad moods or bad days, but I can allow myself forgiveness and I can get back up from the fall.

            I am allowed to forgive myself. I deserve to forgive myself and I deserve to be happy—even if it isn’t every day; even if I stumble and struggle, I deserve to see myself through the journey of healing and I deserve all of the good things in my life that depression forces me to overlook and underappreciate.

            Thanks for reading.

A Shocking Revelation

                My friend and long-time acquaintance, Alex, was visiting and Randy was napping with Persephone. We were talking about the past, a good 10-13 years ago, reminiscing on some good times, some bad times, and whatever else came to mind. We were on the topic of friends.

                “I only had two friends at Roy. And one of them was a shitty friend and the other one moved to Illinois at the end of sixth grade.”

                “Who was that?”

                “Rose Stramaglia.”

                “I remember her! You know, I was actually just thinking of her the other day.”

                “What? No way! I think about her off and on. We wrote to each other for a while, but then we lost contact. I’ve tried finding her online and everything, to no avail.”

                We went on for a little while, talking about Rose and how I missed her and how he heard her talking to his friend Meechie and that’s when he stopped picking on her like all the other kids did. I was impressed that she’d talked to one of the guys we thought were real assholes; I was also surprised to hear that she’d been a fan of and played Final Fantasy. That brought us to the topic of video games and I mentioned how my aforementioned shitty friend, Kaydee, would make me watch her play video games relentlessly.

                “She was a terrible friend. I’d go over to her house and she would just…”

                “She would just do whatever she wanted?”

                “I mean—yeah, basically—you know, she just did her own thing, regardless of my presence. She would play her video games and wouldn’t let me play or join.”

                “Wow.”

                “Yeah. Like, I’m pretty sure she’s the main reason I never was a big gamer. Because she never let me play. That, and my fucking games would disappear. Like, I had a Sega Genesis once, and my Sonic the Hedgehog and Echo the Dolphin games just up and disappeared… so I gave the console back to my dad.”

                All of a sudden, Alex was looking at me a lot more meaningfully, which is saying something, as he tends to have a very meaningful expression nearly all the time on his face. He looked away and I couldn’t figure out why he looked guilty, until—

                “Yeah, about that…” Deep breath. “I think… I’m pretty sure… I mean, I broke your game.”

                What?! Wait. No. What? How—I don’t even—what? I don’t remember taking my game to school, even. How did he break it? He never visited me; he’d never even met my grandma until just the other day! How the hell did he even get my game, let alone steal it?!

                Complete mystification. Honestly, I was shocked.

                “How—what?”

                “Yeah, I just saw it, like, hanging out of the desk, and I just… I just wanted it, so I took it. I think I wanted it for like, a collection thing, at first… and then I broke it. I don’t even know why I did it, I am so sorry. I felt like shit as soon as I did it, like, I probably just destroyed something that really meant something to someone. I’m sorry.”

                “Wow… I just… Wow. It’s okay…”

                “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I’m a dick.”

                “Well… yeah. Just. Wow, dude, you were a dick.”

                “Yeah…”

                He looked so guilty, I couldn’t even be mad at him, which caused a great deal of confusion within me. All of a sudden, this great mystery of my life was solved, and the person responsible for me giving up my Sega was sitting right next to me, feeling as guilty as they come and apologizing profusely. Honestly, I couldn’t hold it against him. I couldn’t even say what would ordinarily have been the first thing to come to mind. I couldn’t bring myself to be indignant or angry, so I just said it was okay and he said it wasn’t, then I explained that I appreciate the honesty and it was a long time ago, so I don’t hold a grudge. Still, the revelation had rendered me shocked, to say the least.

                We revisited the topic a few more times. He couldn’t express his regret enough, despite my assurances that all was well—after all, he has a plan in place to make it up to me and it’s more than acceptable. Mostly, I couldn’t believe that he, of all people, was the person responsible for my loss of Sonic the Hedgehog. I never would have suspected him unless someone had been hinting at it. All this time, I’d thought that Kaydee had probably run off with it some time when she visited; it seemed to me as though the game was in my drawer one day and mysteriously gone the next. If someone had told me that a person had broken my game, I would have initially assumed it was my “friend”, and then I would have run down the list of kids who picked on me, from worst to best, until I gave up (because, honestly, I never would have guessed it was Alex).

                Even now, days later, I find myself bemused and mildly stunned to think of it. I hold no grudge, mind you; it was a long time ago and Alex has by and large made amends already. At the time, though, I found myself stunned. I made an attempt to take care of my daughter and it didn’t work; Randy took her back and I simply went outside to smoke because I was overwhelmed with emotion. The feeling that I’m failing as a mother is bad enough by itself; this night, it was amplified by the feeling that my peers, in my childhood, really wanted to ruin my life. I had been awash with a strange kind of joy at the moment of the revelation; the fact that Alex had provided me closure on this video game was a moment of great relief, despite the fact of the matter. It actually took a few minutes for the realization to sink in that I was sitting beside someone I now considered a close friend and he was telling me that he was personally responsible for what may have been a major event in my life that contributed to the reasons why I was never a big gamer like many of the friends I have now always have been. Suddenly, I felt as if my world had been turned upside-down. The world really was out to get me and the proof was in the pudding, as they say. Suddenly, I felt as if losing my Sonic the Hedgehog game for the Sega Genesis was the reason I didn’t play all of the Elder Scrolls games, or why I haven’t finished a video game since beating Portal 2 in tech school because my boyfriend-of-the-time insisted I play the game and I got hooked immediately. Suddenly, it was as if Alex was personally responsible for my never really fitting in to any niche or clique in school.

                I recognized the toxicity of those feelings as well as the irrational thinking behind them. I knew that what I was feeling was inaccurate and unreasonable, not to mention unfair to Alex. It had been a stupid, impulsive action by a preteen boy, for which he felt immediately sorry and has been regretting ever since. Who was I to start pinning all of my childhood woes on him? He wasn’t even a primary tormentor! If anything, he had largely left me alone up to seventh grade, when he would regularly bait me into letting out a completely predictable (because I said literally the same exact thing every time) stream of curse words that was intended to make him leave me alone. Then, after seventh grade, until he suddenly apologized for an array of things in our sophomore year and subsequently afterwards, he left me alone. We became Facebook friends after our making amends in school but still didn’t talk until I returned from the military and sent him a message, one day. I had absolutely nothing to hold against Alex—why the hell would I suddenly grasp on to this one cruel act and hold it over his head as though he deserves all the extra blame and guilt? I smoked a bowl and came back inside, moped around a bit, and finally started to feel better.

                Randy came in and Alex and I told him what we’d been discussing. Alex told Randy he was going to get me the game the next day, to replace the one he’d broken. Randy’s immediate response was to point out that I no longer have a Sega Genesis, followed by an anecdote about the Genesis he found that comes with 12 games, all for like fifty dollars, that Alex could get for me instead, for my birthday. Alex actually agreed—rather eagerly, in fact—even though I still felt as though he’d made amends enough and could make amends more in other ways if he felt the need. But, hey, he’s saving me from having to buy the Genesis myself later on!

In seriousness, though, I admire the honesty of my friend and the courage it took for him to look me in the eye and tell me what he did. Any person who has the moral fiber to do that deserves to be forgiven and to put the past behind them, releasing it and accepting it as a part of their past and nothing more, nothing worse.

Getting My Baby to Sleep

                “Shhh… Shhh… Shhh…” The mantra is a regular, along with Hush Little Baby and the occasional Alouette as I rock my six-month-old daughter in an attempt to make her sleep. Her eyes are heavy; they drift close only to snap back open and stare blearily at me, drifting closed yet again. Watching her fight sleep would be entertaining if it weren’t such a regular habit.

                Just about any parent on the plant knows the struggle, and if they don’t, I want to know their secrets to having babies sleep at regular times that can be scheduled.  My husband and I have been bed-sharing with our daughter since shortly after her birth; she slept better between the two of us and we wanted to be able to sleep, too. Now, she’s six going on seven months old and I am doing my absolute best to get her to sleep in her own bed. We have a pack-n-play set up on my side of the bed and I feel this need to insert myself as her mother, fully and completely, by getting her on a sleeping schedule wherein she sleeps in her own bed and things go well. I’m probably imagining some kind of unreachable utopia of parenthood that never happens, but it’s a damned good fantasy, damn it!

                It’s only been a few days, but here’s the rundown:

                Day after day, night after night, I sit in my recliner and rock with my daughter as I try to get her to fall asleep so I can put her in her bed and get work done. So far, I have only succeeded twice, and her sleep was short-lived. I don’t mind the short life of the nap as much as the times I’ve failed getting her to stay asleep after putting her down in her bed. I set up the old Graco swing my grandparents bought for us from a garage sale and found out Persephone enjoyed it. Shortly thereafter, I discovered that it wanted to launch Persephone at the TV. I still put her in the swing, but I either push her manually or watch her like a hawk while it’s on so that I can turn it off should it get even slightly too fast. We need a newer swing, but what can you do when you’re broke? That’s why I’ve been trying to learn HTML and other computer skills in order to have more success with my blog and, soon, my webcomic. Between trying to get Persephone to sleep and trying to work on my computer skills and making money online, I’ve found myself pushing off the Wii and getting a workout with Just Dance 4.

                This evening, I became so angry that I was shaking. Persephone had woken up both times I’d put her down in her bed; both times, she’d looked around for a minute or two and then started crying. I can’t figure out why she won’t go back to sleep like she’s done twice for me previously. Am I putting her down too quickly? Maybe I should fake putting her down before actually putting her down so that she doesn’t think much of it. Maybe I should also move slower as I go.

Quitting vs. Making Sacrifices

My heart is heavy. How often do you hear a person say those words, these days? I have a fondness for antiquated phrases, including “tickled,” which is used to express delight, glee, and other giddy feelings that frankly make you feel like something is actually tickling your insides. Euphemisms don’t just come out of nowhere, you know. Ah, but I digress. My heart is heavy.

                The weight is displaced and redistributed with the weight of my cat in my lap or my baby in my arms. Still, though, there rests an anvil atop my heart, its weight pressing down but not quite crushing the organ that so diligently pumps blood throughout my body, supplying blood to every last piece of me from my lungs, so close to the heart itself, to the tips of my temperature-temperamental toes. An anvil made not of any kind of metal, but rather formed by the truth of reality and adulthood seems to weigh more than any Acme product and I find myself wondering if I’m truly being honest with myself. Do I feel this weight in my heart because I am realizing now that reality is nothing like what I had hoped I could make of it, or does this weight rest so persistently within my chest because I suffer from depression and I haven’t taken my anti-depressant medication in days, if not a week?

                Why can’t I have it all? Why is it that there is only a finite amount of time in a day, a week, and I am terribly bad at managing it efficiently? This probably sounds very much like I’m complaining, like I’m sitting here whining “Oh, woe is me,” “Poor me,” “Why me?” But the truth is, I wanted to have it all. I wanted to make my life something amazing, something epic, and I wanted to manage things in a way that kept me busy and happy and also making money while I took care of my family. I wanted to have my cake, eat it, and show off to the world how amazing it was. Then, I was slapped with a realization that was just as cold, wet, clammy, and generally unpleasant as a recently-dead fish smacking you across the face when your brother decides it’s a good idea to start a fish fight in the little sailboat your dad took the two of you out in to do some fishing to try bonding as a family.

                It was all an illusion. The idea that I could juggle three full-time jobs and maintain happiness and sanity as well as order and whatever else you can think of was as illusionary as seeing an oasis in the middle of the desert when you’re dying of thirst and haven’t had water any time in recent memory. Only, for me, that mirage was shattered suddenly by the appearance of a small, yellow envelope from the Olympia Municipal Court, fining me for parking too long in a roadside parking space whose meter would only allot me two hours at a time. According to the slip of paper inside this crucial yellow envelope, it was not only the meter, but the space itself, which held a two-hour limit, and I had surpassed that time. It wasn’t the first time, either. In my mind’s eye, this yellow envelope fell upon a pile of yellow envelopes, collected over the course of perhaps two months, at most, and used as an effigy of sorrow and misery at the fact that I could not catch a break with parking in the city!

                I was accepted into a 90-day trial period as a tattoo intern. I was going to learn all there is to know about tattooing, the industry, the art styles, famous artists who have paved the way and pivoted change in the history of tattooing. Then, during my internship, I was going to start college and go to school for a fine arts’ degree. During these two endeavors, I also planned to be able to take care of my growing baby often enough that my husband could get his homework done for his own college classes. With the appearance of this final parking ticket was sparked a discussion with my husband about how many parking tickets I’ve accrued and, ultimately, how I’m going to be able to juggle my time between an internship, being a full-time student, and still managing to be a wife and mother at home. I can’t do it. I won’t be able to do it.

                When this realization hit me, as a train without brakes might hit anything in its path should it suddenly be derailed, I knew that I had to give up on something and there was only one thing that sucked money out and gave nothing monetary in return. That was my internship.

                I was scheduled through the weekend and had all intentions of completing that time—before I ended up sick with chest and sinus congestion and felt too much like death to go in for my last two days. Being an intern to become a tattoo artist required me to drive 35 minutes nearly every day, pay for parking in a city that increasingly seemed to have it out for me, and help take care of a tattoo shop wherein I was not allowed to touch actual tattooing equipment (yet) and most of the time, it was dead, so I sat around doing my drawing assignments and wondering how the hell I was going to come up with another 2,500 words to add to my essay about Old School style tattooing. Yes, it was stressful, but there was more to it.

                The requirements were strict and sometimes seemed overwhelming, but I spent my days doing the one thing I have always, always loved to do: Drawing. I was allowed to go half an hour away from home to spend time in a friendly shop where the artists only do custom work, the walls are decorated with paintings for sale by local artists, the Internet connection was pretty reliable, and there wasn’t a whole lot I had to do aside from drawing and writing. It was perfect for me. I loved it.

                Almost immediately after giving up the apprenticeship (internship—fucking state pedantics), I felt a kind of relief. It was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Suddenly, I had all the time in the world between now and when I start college and I could use it to get the house cleaned up the way I want (since I clearly couldn’t rely on my husband to do any of it right), take care of my baby and let Randy get his schoolwork done, get laundry done, and cook every so often. I didn’t have to worry about the gas I was using during my 35-minutes-each-way commute. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not the parking meter would expire or if I was parked too long in a space, anymore. I no longer needed to keep a shop clean in which I contributed almost nothing to the mess—even though cleaning the shop was never, not even once, a weighted point in the consideration of whether or not I could keep up the internship.

                People say that sacrifices have to be made in life. Have I made a sacrifice? Have I sacrificed my internship in order to give the other things in my life more meaning? Have I sacrificed the internship in order to be a better wife and mother and, soon, student? Or, have I quit on something that made me happy? Have I quit on something that would have made me a living no matter where I was?

                My heart is heavy. I miss the routine. I miss getting up for the day and choosing something nice and classy to wear to “work”. I miss being in the tattoo shop/art gallery. I miss having drawing assignments, because the gods know that unless someone gives me an idea these days, I can’t draw for shit.

                Indeed, my heart is heavy. But I think that most of the weight making up the anvil resting within my chest actually comes from the idea that the instant I said I couldn’t do it, I was replaced. I thought that my time in the shop mattered. I thought I was making meaningful relationships and I felt as though I mattered, at least a little bit. Then, while I was emailing the owner, she asked me to effectively show the ropes to the new intern. So, am I caught up over the semantics of whether I’ve quit or made a sacrifice, or does the weight in my heart come from a feeling of betrayal?