This is my new calm-inducing statement, encompassing a very real truth: if a situation is not my business, it is not my problem. Unless something is affecting me directly, it’s not my responsibility to fix it, or to let myself get upset about it in a way that will affect my relationships with others.
One of my cousins was born on the same day of the same year as me. We never really got along, in part because I was a prickly pear, in part because she had a mean streak, partly because we shared every classroom until the 8th grade, and partly because our grandmother kept comparing us to each other. Suffice to say, our lives have veered off in wildly different directions. She announced this week that her 16 1/2 year old son is making her a grandmother.
And she’s EXCITED about it.
I know this may show me to be a judgmental bitch, but really, the mind reels.
Her excitement is a little weird. I’m not saying she should necessarily be ashamed about this—stuff like this happens, sometimes, and it’s no good trying to sweep it under the rug—but seriously, she doesn’t seem to be giving any thought to the WORK she might end up having to do to help him raise this kid. My guess is, that’s because the girl in question will have her mother do all the work, and my cousin will be off the hook. Just call me cynical.
This is the kind of situation that I should not get my knickers in a twist over. It’s not anything to do with me, and I risk being the family pariah if I express anything but cautious optimism that all will be well. Still, I can’t congratulate her. I’m not happy for her; I think she is deluded.
Speaking of things that have been affecting me directly, Esso has been sick with some sort of viral thing. He’s achy, tired, befuddled, and has intermittent fevers. He’s been home, on my couch for nearly a week now, and it doesn’t look like there’s anything we can do. Our family doctor is still in London, because there really aren’t any doctors accepting new patients around here, plus I have trusted this doctor through my asthma, diabetes and infertility complaints, the breast lump scare of ’94, and Esso’s pneumonia two winters ago. He’s a keeper.
Esso doesn’t like it when I “fuss” over him. Fussing encompasses getting him to take his temperature, offering to bring him a cold compress or water, suggesting a nap might be beneficial, etc. Sometimes, just talking to him is enough to get the label of “fussing.” I have been hiding out in the basement, playing on the computer for nearly 8 days now, and I’m BORED.
