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Busy Bodies

This past month has been crazy. Meetings out the wazoo and then some. I’m pretty sure I went to one meeting that was about having a meeting.

The only good thing about all these gatherings of people with a supposed common purpose is that sometimes you get things accomplished. Of course that takes about 347 meetings, but who’s counting?

I remember early on in my work life when I thought it sounded so grown-up to go to “a meeting.” I used to wish I was asked to go to one. I’d wear something a little snazzier that day. Maybe my black shoes with the one-inch heels. Little did I know that it would become such a regular part of my life. I guess that really kicked in when I had kids. And it mostly kicked in when they were in trouble, or in Dan’s case, because of his autism. 

Now that he’s almost ready to leave high school, I’m having more meetings than ever. I feel like I have to pave the way for Dan’s adult life. Sometimes that involves one of those giant steamrollers and other times I just have to pull a few weeds out of his path. Either way, it always involves me getting up off my butt and putting myself in sometimes uncomfortable situations, i.e.: talking to people I don’t know. What I wouldn’t do for that kid.

The worst part is that I find myself blinking away tears during some of these  powwows. I’m either terrified at the meeting because I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do, or the people at the meeting are so awesome and supportive that it brings me to tears. Either way I’m a big crybaby. Whatever.

Maybe it’s because Dan is my last baby. Although I’m still waiting for the day when I stop considering all three of them babies. I hope for my sake and theirs that it happens soon. 

Now I’m more concerned with the conversation at the meetings than I am whether or not my slip is showing or I have lipstick on my teeth. These days I’m wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and a little Chapstick on my fanciest of days. And something tells me the substance is more important today even though my denim’s frayed. Besides, who wears a slip anymore?







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