Frustrated

I'm frustrated. Had I the time, I'd probably cry.

I have decided that I need a crier, someone who's very good at crying, to help me, teach me how to cry. But I don't have time to cry right now, or to practice crying, so I won't allow myself the luxury.

I just got a call from Health & Welfare a few hours ago, foster daughter is moving out tomorrow morning. Yes, thank you for the less than 24 hour warning to get all the clothing and bedding washed, prepare her little heart for the move, prepare mine and not to mention my own children's! It's Sunday. SUNDAY! Which means that this decision to move foster children was made on Friday at the latest. FRIDAY! Which means that the caseworker didn't bother to mention this "little change of plan" to me until today. TODAY!

ARRGGGHHHHHHH!

Does she think that I flippantly care for the children under my roof? That I can take them or leave them on a whim? Perhaps others can, but that doesn't fit into my "all or nothing" style. But "it is what it is," as I frantically wash, gather, gripe and pack; filling out inventory forms, gathering all important papers, updating files, jotting down notes for the new placement, making photocopies as a form of insurance, and making sure everything is in order. And these are just the non-important logistical things. What of the more life-changing things of playing together, sharing stories, taking pictures, joking, laughing, chatting, making memories? Where's the time for that admist moving a little brown eyed girl from her sweet yellow butterfly bedroom right across the hall from mine?

Monday is my big cleaning day, but that day has become today, my day of rest. Who wants someone from the State seeing their house even the least bit untidy? The only good news in this is that when I get PO'd, I clean like a one-eyed woman on a life-or-death mission. Get in my way, I'll run you over without even noticing; I may just think that the vacuum is clogged again. (I am the expert de-lodger of legos, Playmobils, and other small-but-not-small-enough parts that can be found in odd places inside a vacuum cleaner.)

I'm just so frustrated. I need to learn how to properly deal with stress. I don't know how this is done. I need to figure it out, though, lest I die of heart failure before 40 knocks on my door. IT seems that I constantly have a furrow in my brow--am I getting a wrinkle there? NOT COOL!

Okay, venting time is over. It's a good thing I'm not taking the advice to do what makes me happy; I'd be serving Roasted Social Worker in a Red Wine Sauce for dinner.

Bon Appetite!