STFU, Teabag

I start each workday with a cup of hot tea; a nice detox blend that makes me feel like I am doing something healthy for my body. The tea bags that I use feature a little saying on the tag; a saying meant to encourage me toward a Zen attitude for the remainder of the day.

Yesterday, my tea bag got a little preachy with me. I didn't like it.

Teabag has no idea how many balls I have in the air right now. Teabag doesn't know that every day feels like treading water in a vast ocean, with wave after wave pounding against me, arms above my head, holding a ten pound brick like a teenager taking lifeguard training. Teabag has no idea how much pressure I am under, pressure to perform the numerous duties that my two jobs demand. Teabag has no idea just how many forms there are to fill out, committees there are to sit on, checks there are to write, or fires there are to put out when one's daughter is a graduating senior; Teabag doesn't have a daughter.

Teabag has no notion of the internal struggle that I face each day, fearing that the Man-Cub will miss out on my attentions while I fret over his sister. Teabag doesn't have a son who deserves undivided attention and a less-than-scattered mother.

Teabag needs to walk a few miles in my shoes before he tells me to keep up.