2 blogs in one week?! What are we doing, Kellie? What can I say, it’s either feast or famine around here. And sometimes when inspiration strikes, ya just gotta roll (or type) with it. I promise, it will be a quick one. Hey oh, that’s what he said.

Tuesday I woke up not feeling great. Not in a physical or unhealthy way. In my mental state. I was unwell. And it’s from a lot of things, that I won’t really go into in too much detail. But a culmination of life. My son is leaving again. I’m tired all the time. I’m lonely yet shit at making new connections. I’m still continually lost. There’s turmoil in my life that I won’t go into. Bad things are happening to people I care about that just hit way too close too home, selfishly making me relive the worst time in my life. It was just a real pity party kind of day. And I know, if you’re going to have a pity party don’t invite anyone and don’t stay too long. But it’s my pity party and just so I can get the most attention, all of the internet is invited.

Jack had physical therapy Tuesday morning in Virginia Beach. It was a cloudy day but I kept my sunglasses on so as not to alert him to the fact that his mom was being quite the bitch baby, and cried nearly the entire drive. It was his second to last PT here and, of course, he passed his strength test with flying colors. I watched from the lobby, in awe of his courage, strength and resilience. I want to be just like him when I grow up. I also kept my head down a fair amount because my stupid eyeballs kept betraying me with their stupid wetness.

The drive home went a little bitter. I was able to hold my shit together. Such a pillar of strength, I am. We get home around noon. He asks if I’ll take him to the field around 2 and soft toss to him in the cage. I’m all geared up. I love feeling like a part of his athletic journey and I love *trying* to keep up with him. (That’s funny because fuck no I cannot keep up with him.) He starts his training with some stretching and a couple sprints. I forego because obviously I’m in the prime of my life and that’s completely unnecessary for me (that’s sarcasm in case you couldn’t tell – I forego because I’m a lazy cow – I was going to use another “C” word there but thought better of it). He hits a round off the tee, wholly unsatisfied with himself as he says he did a terrible job. Looked good to me but I am completely biased.

Then I’m up. He moves the screen, approximately 10 feet from his position and I start my tossing. Unfortunately, I’m doing quite the piss poor job and I can tell he’s angry with me. It wasn’t on purpose. I just hadn’t found my groove yet. Now, if you could see me when soft tossing to Jack, you’d have one hell of a laugh. Every swing I’m jumping behind the screen as fast as possible, flailing to cover all my vital body parts and sometimes letting out a little yelp. A real bad ass I do not resemble. But he’s big and strong and hits the fuck out of the ball so it’s a little scary for his old ass mommy.

So, there we are, me tossing poorly and representing an upside down cockroach to avoid bodily harm, him still making solid contact but not thrilled with himself. On my final toss (we didn’t know this would be my final toss), my cockroach reflexes did not kick in quite fast enough, my hand did not make it behind the screen in a timely manner, and WHAM, line drive straight to the wrist. In a real late 80s, early 90s dad move, God looked down at me and said “you wanna cry, I’ll give you something to cry about.” And he did. I dropped quick as a leopard pouncing on its prey. I think Jack asked me if I was ok, I said yes, just give me a minute, laid out on the turf crying like a toddler just scolded for attempting to put her finger in an electrical outlet. That. Shit. Hurt. But I don’t think it hurt as badly as my reaction warranted. For his part, Jack hit another round off the tee which pissed him off even more, then took to running poles, all while his mommy cried to the point of losing her breath – in his defense, I told him to keep going, I’d be fine.

I just think I needed to release. Because I hold so much in all of the time. As we all do. It’s so hard to be strong. To act like everything is fine day in and day out. To seem like you have your shit completely together. I just needed to fall apart. I’m tired. I’m alone. I’m sad. And now my wrist is fractured.

I do have some pretty bad ass baseball stitching on my wrist, so not all is lost. I look pretty cool when I take the brace off. Thinking of making them permanent just to always remind Jack of that time he broke his mommy’s wrist.

Life is hard. It’s ok to breakdown. We don’t have to be so fucking strong all the fucking time. This is more of a reminder to myself than anything else. Now I have to go attempt to wash my hair, which I haven’t done in days. Help me, I’m gross.