head towards the light

When the doctor came in and reviewed my chart, she questioned why I was lifting weights in the first place when I have an underlying connective tissue disease.

And I said: 'It's the sweet gym aroma and boredom and my lust for pain that keeps me coming back.'

(Fine. I didn't say that. I grimaced.)

It was the proverbial straw to a week of taking myself very seriously. Taking the blame for a fluke neck injury; worrying myself over stupid standardized tests.

All week, I've been trying to keep my normal schedule while my neck heals. I've been putting pressure on my kids to do math drills with me. I've wiped too many frustrated tears.

Greg's absence hung in the air.

Then Lexi uttered the words I dread: 'I'm just bad at math.' It was a new refrain from her lips, echoing my own despair as a kid. I couldn't bear it.

Her confidence was needlessly tattered.

So I decided to jump off my crazy train. I took a nap yesterday. I decided I can't solve the education question overnight.

And we found our sense of humor, buried under the weight of a long week.