All You Need Is a Little Control

From raging bull to euphoric high

Photo by Jyotirmoy Gupta on Unsplash

Yesterday was a wild roller coaster kind of day.

The kind of day that starts off with strong emotions and ends with opposite strong emotions.

This Raging Bull Is Seeing Red

The morning had been mostly productive, especially for a Monday. I finished a website I was building and learned how to schedule Tweets (why did it take me so long to figure this out, and are they Xs now instead of Tweets?). I also miraculously realized I had all the ingredients I needed for dinner.

Then I took my dog to the vet at 1:30 pm.

As I walked in, I geared up for the fight I knew was coming to get my dumber than an ostrich, 50lb. Bernedoodle onto the scale.

With all of the modern technology we have, it literally blows my mind that we haven’t come up with better solutions for some of the simplest tasks: like guiding a frantic, stupid animal onto a scale.

Every time I go to the vet they say the same thing: “Please put Daisy on the scale.”

And I want to yell, “YOU get Daisy on the scale! Aren’t you the animal whisperers?”

Not only is it embarrassing that Daisy walks around me in quick, tight circles huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, it’s also infuriating they think I can get her to stand on a specific spot long enough for them to read the weight.

Usually, I manage to wrestle her onto the scale and try to take my hands off long enough to get an “accurate” read. The technician’s determination to get the exact right number doesn’t help lower my blood pressure.

It’s. A. Dog.

This time, I gave up before I started. I muttered under my breath, “There must be a better way.” Finally, the receptionist came over to help.

We successfully got her weight, and they took her back to do whatever they needed to do. I don’t ask anymore; I just hand over my credit card.

Don’t get me wrong, I love our dogs. But I have a teenager, a tween, two sets of aging parents, and a husband who was just promoted to general manager (CEO) of his company. The dogs are very, very low on the food chain.

It was a short visit, and I hadn’t calmed down before we were back on the road.

There are two ways to get home: highway or back roads. The back roads are calmer and prettier.

Winding around tight curves, I suddenly came upon a long row of utility trucks and other vehicles blocking my lane. There were no signs for a detour or any other kind of guidance as to how I was supposed to navigate this. The line of vehicles was too long and the road too curved to see if I could go around. So I turned around in someone’s driveway and looked for another way.

I zigzagged through neighborhood streets and made it back to the main back road. As I got close to a park near my house that sits on a lake, I noticed cars in front of me slowing down.

Coming around another curve, traffic was stopped. There was a policewoman telling cars to turn around, her own vehicle blocking the way across the bridge over the lake.

The cars in front of me were making ridiculous three point turns when there was plenty of space to make a simple, wide turn around.

Then the vehicle in front of me decided to have a leisurely chat with the cop. I yelled frantically in my car until she finally made the turn and I could follow.

I decided to stop risking the back way and get on the highway, which meant a lot of backtracking. Then I missed my exit, which is a weird and fairly new left turn way before you get to the highway. I had to make a quick U-turn and heard my sweet dog slam against the window.

Now I was flaming mad and had hurt my dog! (She was fine. She has a hard head.)

By the time I got home, I was ready to stab someone. Plus the detours were eating into my precious nap time.

After taking a quick nap, I looked outside to see if a box of soccer uniforms had arrived yet. You see, the original box was shipped to the wrong address. I only knew this because I received a different box with some other families’ uniforms.

Capelli Sport assured me they’d send out a new box right away and it should’ve arrived. It hadn’t.

I checked online, clicking on the tracking number, and discovered that this second box had been sent to another wrong address in Texas.

My eyes glazed over with red.

It wouldn’t be such a big deal except my girl has games this weekend and needs her new uniforms. She can wear her old ones, but would possibly be the only one doing so. I know in my head it’s not a big deal. In my mom heart, it’s a different story.

The worst part of all these situations was I had no control over any of them.

None of the parts of this story are that big of a deal. Right?

But there have been so many circumstances in the last six months that feel completely out of my control.

I can’t control my parents’ declining health. I can’t control my teenager’s mood swings or choices. I can’t control certain aspects of my marriage.

. . .

A Wild Mood Swing That Had Nothing To Do With Hormones

At 6 pm, there was a parent team meeting for my son’s soccer team.

I made dinner early so we could eat before. I told my husband well in advance about the meeting and it was on the family calendar. He said he was going.

At 5:30 pm he arrived home completely clueless about the meeting and had made plans to play soccer tennis with my girl.

That was the straw.

I left for the meeting without saying bye to anyone and fumed all the way there. (I took the highway.)

Then something strange happened.

When I arrived, I started chatting with other parents. My mood lifted a little.

During the meeting, I made some jokes and everyone laughed. I felt like I belonged. I was a veteran parent among some newer ones and knew the ropes. This was my tribe.

When they asked who wanted to be team manager, my hand quickly shot up.

The team manager keeps the schedule updated on the team app and is the point person for all things team related. It’s not a big job, but it takes someone who can stay on top of things.

The idea that I would have CONTROL over this little area of my life made me giddy with joy. Euphoric.

I wouldn’t have to wait for another parent to update anything or to answer a question hours after it had been asked.

I would be in control.

I had no idea until I acknowledged my intense mood shift that this is what I had been so frustrated about all day.

After the meeting, my happy high stuck with me. I got a fancy decaf coffee and went to the tennis courts to watch my girl and husband play with no resentment whatsoever.

. . .

I’m finding this stage of life stuck between teens and older parents very, very difficult. I often feel helpless and sometimes even hopeless.

I need to focus on the things in my life I can control, and I’ve been working toward that. I’m working on writing regularly, training to become a recovery coach, talking to my teenager with no expectations, and working on my own health since I can’t control that of my parents.

Ironically, I’m a pretty easygoing person. I’m not a control freak, but when the rug keeps getting pulled out from under your feet, you just want to feel some solid ground.

Being able to update the soccer schedule on the team app feels life giving.

Like I won the lottery.