What's Next?

My favorite TV show -- ever -- is "The West Wing". Before I digress and launch into all the reasons why, I'll move on... but if you haven't watched it, you should.

At the end of most episodes, I'd look at Brian and say, of President Bartlet: " Best president we've ever had..."

Often, at the end of a plot thread, the President will calmly look around and say, "What's next?" It is a profoundly simple way to punctuate the fact that, as hard as this situation was, or whether it ended as expected or horribly, there is still work to be done. Let's move forward -- What's next?

In a "life imitates art" way, I now find myself at this same crossroads. Not only have I suddenly come to the end of my career as a homeschool teacher, having just graduated my school's only student, but as of next month, I'm also moving on from being a caregiver for my darling grand-niece. Little Lola is moving on to full-time preschool in September, so I'm looking at this pile of toddler toys in the corner of my living room and asking myself, "What's next?"

Before all this kid stuff happened, I was a cum laude graduate from the University of Southern California, sporting two bachelor's degrees. I worked at USC for four years, then moved into the business world. I made a crap-ton of money, and I had a ball, though I often worked 12-hour days.

And lemme tell you, those days are SO over. I never, ever, EVER want to work in an office again. So what do I do? If I could pick any way I want to bring home the bacon, it'd be by writing. So feel free to share this blog with everyone you know, so I can get sponsored and become fabulously wealthy.

But I am also one of those people who craves stability where paychecks are concerned. Contract work is great, because it keeps things fresh and new, and because I can pick and choose when I'm busy. But not knowing exactly when the next check is coming, and how big it's going to be, is very anxiety-producing for me.

So, I'm filling out an application for Trader Joe's. Because I'm not too proud to do a job like this, and because everyone who works there seems happy. Maybe they'll make me constantly happy too... But for a 53-year-old lady to walk in and say, "Here's my application. I know, I have the penmanship of a 5-year-old serial killer. Yeah, um, I'd love to work here. But Sundays are out. Monday nights are out. Wednesdays are pretty much shot. And I need a week off in October and December..." Will they just eject me with a derisive snort and a swift kick in the pants?

I have other ideas. Loads of them. But I gotta buy groceries starting September. So here goes...

And let's not get into the emotional wreckage of losing my own baby and my niece's baby all at once. Sure, to her credit, Lola is trying to make it easier on me. She's in the throes of potty training. Big, giant, messy poop in her big girl panties today. After I had thrown her in the shower with Jennifer to hose her off, she then sat on her potty and did a nice pee, at least. We both told her, "It's okay, Lola..."

"No, it's NOT okay," she answered.

A while later, Lola cheerfully exclaimed, "Deen (her name for me)! I take a bath!"

"Yes, that's because you had poop on you. Next time, if you have to go poop, you should go in the potty, okay?"

"Ooo! That's a good idea!"

I'm not gonna lie. It's gonna be hard, going from thirty hours a week with a kid that is arguably the cutest baby on the planet right now, to pretty much not seeing her at all. And as I type, my grown-up daughter is off on her first paying job with our church. She just texted that she'll be home late. My ever-patient-with-me hubby and I are watching the Olympics on TV. I'm hoping I don't wake up for a couple of hours tonight like I have the past several nights. It's so weird how quickly Jen left the nest. Sure, she's still here a lot. But it's different, all of the sudden. I knew it was coming. But nothing can really, truly prepare us for this, right? I'm just so grateful that we still get along, and that we sing in our chorus together. And that when she does come home, she hangs out in our room and, like, talks to us. So that's good.

But it's clearly time to figure out "what's next..."

I talk a good game, but inside, I'm kind of a mess. Don't hug me when you see me, okay? Or if you do, make up a fake reason. Otherwise, it just makes it worse...