My house is under siege. Nerf bullets are flying. Every few minutes, I hear the words, “I’m dead.”
I came home from work today and walked into a battlefield. My son has two friends over and the Nerf Battle is on. My chest tightened with panic and my throat closed with fear. Blankets are thrown off beds. Pictures off walls. I’m not even going to ask where my pillows have gone.
Instead, I’m going to write on my blog and try to ignore the fact that a bowl from breakfast is still on the couch and my bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in…gasp…three days. The kids don’t seem to mind the mess and I’m not going to either.
It’s killing me.
My home is my sanctuary, a safe place from the critical eyes of the world where I can let down my hair, throw on my pajama pants falling apart at the seams, and just be. I’m not one who has friends stop by at a whim. When they do, I turn into a defensive guardsmen. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t own any weapons. My automatic responses wouldn’t be legal. I know that it’s not healthy to be so guarded and, as my son has grown, I’ve grown with him. I admit that I love when he has friends over and it does my heart good to see him being a kid.
I’m as guarded about my writing. As much as I want an opinion, I feel panic about sending it off to a trusted friend. The nagging voice in the back of my head screams just before I’m brave enough to hit send on Yahoo. “It’s not ready! Just one more read through. One more edit!”
Like the resolve I found in allowing a Nerf war to blaze on, despite the dust on the shelves and the fact that they were…gasp…in my room, I have found resolve in allowing myself one more read through. Only one. No more.
And then, I will put my trust in a friend.
Gotta run. I just heard the sound of an aerosol can and the words, “No more spray!”
Maybe they are cleaning for me.