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Got to go
2004-07-02 - 9:28 a.m. Ugh. I'm supposed to leave next week. I really don't want to -- I'd rather wait two more weeks until Nora gets home and then go. That, however, is impossible, because I have to go to this conference. I think I do this every year, don't I? I don't want to go. The conference always messes everything up because I try to plan around it, which is completely impossible. I'm worried about being away so long. Etc. etc. etc. I'm feeling overwhelmed. So what else is new. And I have to call my visiting friend from Vermont, and I don't want to do that either. What a mess. Also, my mother is being a pest. Please, god, prevent me from being a pest to my children in the way that my mother is a pest to me. In specific, if they are coming to visit me, please don't let me haggle with them about dates and Sally Benson. Please let me be happy enough to have them show up that I don't pester the hell out of them about exactly when they will be doing what. Please let me just go ahead and make my own plans and not worry about them at all. Please let me not make them feel simultaneously terrible for never visiting and terrible for staying too long. Please let me just be happy to see them, and happy to babysit their kids, too, who are really pretty good kids and at this age don't actually really need a lot of babysitting. Please let me not make their kids feel that there's something terribly wrong with them because they don't want to play with the unknown grandchildren of my terrible friends. Why would they? They don't know them! Please don't imagine that their kids are going to meet a lot of kids at the yacht club, either, and then marry someone from a good family. What, do you think we're living in 1603? Please let me not torture my children so much that the only way they feel safe is to live 3000 miles away from me. Please let me reconcile this somehow with Nora, so that I in my turn don't boss her around too much with my ideas of what she should do, but still I offer her some ideas of what it would actually be a good idea of what to do. In specific, can I talk her into going out for the crew team without it being the stupid kind of idea that my mother tried to impose on me? Hmmm. Oh dear, I suppose I really shoudl start thinking about what exactly my plans are. My foot is better, by the way, although still not its old footy self. I just read Maurice, by E.M. Forster. What a good book. What a very good book. Okay, then. Bleh.
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