Speaking to me is a bit risky these days. I burst into tears without warning. Not without reason, just without warning. Wanna talk about my mom's cancer? Leakage. Wanna talk older children's testimonies? Shaky voice. Tears. Snot. How's about the homeschooling of my special daughter? Bewildered look. Quivering lip. A muttered mention of an upcoming appointment with the pediatric neurologist which might (or might not) yield helpful information.
New charter school for three of the kids? Good for two. Pretty unpleasant for one. It's likely I can get through that subject with a totally calm face. But don't ask how I'm feeling. Don't ask how my husband's business is going. Or how the finances are coming along. Definitely don't ask how all these stressors affect my poor husband.
How's the rheumatoid arthritis? Better, thanks. Yay, I can hold a convo on that one. The weather? It's been strange lately, don't you think? As long as I stay away from anything that I need to talk about I can talk. Ironic, no?
I've taken to ditching Sunday School for the family history library. (Dead folks ask no questions. If they're rejecting the gospel, they are keeping it to themselves. There's not a thoughtless comment among them.) At home (in between dealing with all of that weepy stuff) I've planted my butt in front of the twenty-some odd seasons of Star Trek in all it's mind-numbing diversity.
The bishop wants to meet with Sam and I to talk. I can't think of anything I'd rather do less than cry for the bishop, but I can't even manage to say that without crying. Maybe I can pull off the first lady adoring gaze at my husband while pondering peaceful fields of wildflowers. I don't have a good hat, but I still think I can do it. Sam can field the questions.
But then again the bishop might just be asking us to work in the nursery. He's a nice guy; I'm sure it'll be fine. Tearful, but fine.