Mud season is nearly upon us. Or, rather, under us. Soon it’ll be tracked in on muck boots, on the back of everyone’s pant legs, coating our vehicles and painting our progress towards spring. This time of year the snow is going, but not fast enough. Or so my mind whispers when I imagine putting the boots away and having the freedom of leaving home in mere flip flops or even barefoot.
Baby Julian is learning the rudimentary uses of hands, but not fast enough when his chubby little knuckle is raw and I have to repeatedly hand him his teething ring during this fussy time. It amazes me how a mother Knows her baby. I only need hold him for a few seconds to see which of the regular requests he’s making. The rest of the family is learning him too, for certain, but in my grumpy, sleep-deprived state it seems not fast enough.
Slowly but surely, life is getting less messy, but not fast enough when the perfectionist in me rears her impatient, well-coifed head. There is much to clean-up. We hired a firecracker accountant out of Warroad to help us with adulting. It was time. We quit drinking three years ago; that alone says that surely we can do other hard things. Such as take control of our health, run a more streamlined household, make progress on our land and find more time for our combined family to be together. Still, my weary little mind thinks it’s all just not happening fast enough.
Social anxiety is lessening bit by bit (but not fast enough) as I force myself out to the few and far between public gatherings in The Angle’s small scene. I’ve traded the crutch of alcohol-as-ice-breaker for a cute baby in a carrier. It works for now. This never used to be an issue for me and it bugs me that I feel so uncomfortable and out of place all of a sudden. I trust that this will change someday, but today’s not that day.
Getting into the political issues that seem to rob me of peace, an almost critical mass has finally realized that the widening income gap is bad for all of us. The 1% no longer have to play by the rules because they buy them, and the rest of us suffer as a result. The torch-wielding mob is gathered outside the palace, but we’re confusedly attacking each other instead of rushing the walls. Wokeness can’t come fast enough.
If we actually honored and weighted each person’s vote equally instead of jumbling them into an antiquated system that assigns more value to some over others, our country seems ready for a woman in the white house. But the patriacharchy isn’t dying fast enough. Fortunately, world leaders like New Zealand’s Jacinda Arden are proving that morality and leadership do indeed go hand in hand and that ethical, compassionate decision making is the way forward, not petty, backbiting, boastful Twitter-baiting cruelty. Kindness and honorable action will make America great again, not science-denying, pocket-filling nepotism.
Aye, this endless election season can’t come to an end fast enough, if it ever will. I suppose the current throne sitter believes his rule is ordained by God and should never come to an end. But I look forward to the day when the cult of King Don is dwindling and the collective doesn’t debate his competence and character ever again.
Some of the dirty old men in our world and in our churches are finally getting their due, but not as many as deserve it and not fast enough. With a nod to the lyrics of Stella Donnelly, too many of the regular blokes who violated my magnificence will forever be nameless and faceless strangers, never having to deal with any repercussions for their entitled boys-will-be-boys upbringing. Some men are learning they need to hold each other accountable and stop blaming women, though not fast enough.
In my ever-impatient march towards the great unknown of the graceful rest of death, it would seem these days that the world is truly changing.
But not fast enough.
(First published April 2, 2019 in the Warroad Pioneer)
2 thoughts on “Not Fast Enough”
I love hearing about your baby, and I am right there with you saying, “Hell yes!” to your political hopes and dreams. Thanks, Friend.
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