If nothing else in life… I’m learning.
Not My Circus. Not My Monkeys.
Like when my husband and I wanted to have babies, we had no idea that the actual BABY phase only lasts up to about 10-12 months – THEN THEY DEVELOP THE SKILL OF WALKING.
And vocabularies.
What we SHOULD have been wanting to have was A BROOD OF DISAGREEABLE MALCONTENTS.
Beggers.
Pleaders.
Eaters.
Mess-makers.
Having kids is really not THAT bad, but having a baby is a faaaaaar cry from having a HUMAN. A HUMAN that will be overtaken by HORMONES in a short 9-12 years from said desired babyhood.
We need to work on that mis-used terminology.
“Hey. Do you want to have humans?”
Furthermore…
I’m learning there’s no winning with Crazy.
Funny how the two merge together so easily, eh?
Kids & Crazy.
In which…
(source: Sue Fitzmaurice, Author)
I have wasted a MILLION HOPES…
You know how you think your words are going to change the mind of someone who should really listen to some sense?
Do you have a Savior Complex?
Oh wait. Maybe it’s just me.
Whatever… You can’t affect crazy. You can’t.
YOU CANNOT.
Just look at the presidential race going on right now.
However crazy may very well might affect you… if you’re not careful.
So I am learning.
To lean back.
To emotionally step back and be all… “Your circus. Your monkeys.”
It’s hard for me.
Letting someone run their own circus.
I’m a pretty good ring leader.
Plus, I’m a fixer, and it’s hard for me to understand how my good sense doesn’t register with people who obviously struggle with their own good sense.
And if course I NEVER struggle with good sense.
*steps aside for lightening to strike*
All that to say… you know what I have NEVER regretted?
Letting the Crazies run their own bloody circus.
Sure. It’s hard to watch. You might even had some skin on the line.
But lose the skin. Not your head.
The alternative is getting shoved into a tiny car with the clowns with very big shoes… or walking a perilous tight rope – with no safety net.
*All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
