Beech Tree News Network

I can’t find Sabria’s backpack—that is the thought I go to bed with.  I leave a note for my daughter, hanging from the hood of my kitchen stove. It reads: Natalie, I can’t find Sabria’s backpack, I think it’s in your car.  Natalie wakes me at four a.m.  “Mom, it’s not in my car.  I’m almost sure I brought it into the house.”  I feel a rising panic in my stomach.  I’m awake, I might as well get up.  I search the house.  It’s not here.  “Maybe, I left it at work,” I tell myself.
    The backpack isn’t for school.  My granddaughter is in pre-school, and they don’t carry backpacks.  The backpack is for after-school, when I pick her up and bring her back to work at New Image Car Care with me.  It contains her favorite stuffed animals, her Kindle tablet, and her old shoes—shoes that don’t seem to matter, but actually do matter, because they keep her new shoes from looking like her old shoes, which are oil-stained and worn.  I know her crayons, coloring books, Spirograph, colored pencils, ball and bicycle are at work where I left them this weekend, but when all else fails it’s the tablet and stuffed animals that keep her interest.
    I remind myself once again of the scene from NCIS, where Gibbs tells Bishop not to get ahead of herself.  “You’re anticipating what might happen instead of trusting yourself to be able to deal with what actually happens.”  I knew that advice was for me the minute I heard it.
    On Friday, I met a customer at work who was in charge of major construction sites, like those monstrous Amazon warehouses.  “They call me the Fireman,” he said, “because I spend my day putting out small fires before they become major issues.”  He dealt with things on a minute to minute basis.  I could identify, although I’ve seen myself more in sports analogies, like the player who runs interference.  Put the dog in the pen when you get off work, so he doesn’t keep everyone awake tonight like he did last night.  Fry the hamburger before you go to work, so you can get the chili ready faster when you get home.
    I grew up in a house with people who were emotionally unpredictable, I tell myself.  I live in a house with a four-year-old, they’re all emotionally unpredictable, I tell myself.  I was born in September, I’m a Virgo, I tell myself.  Everybody knows Virgos hate conflict.  We want peace.  We’d rather stay in the background.  We just want to get along with everybody.  These are also things I tell myself in order to justify my anxiety with conflict and unpredictability. 
    The fireman customer, the one in charge of major construction sites, showed me a picture of his youngest child.  “This one has a September birthday like me,” he said.
    “You’re a Virgo,” I said, in surprise.  “I’m a Virgo also,” I added, “We’re easy to get along with.”
    “Too easy, sometimes,” he said.
    “But you’re not,” I thought, but didn’t say.
    I thought about that guy this weekend.  He was on my mind when I left the note for my daughter about the backpack. 
    Today, I have a chance to step outside the role I’ve excused myself to, albeit on a much smaller scale than the fireman deals with.  I can pick up my granddaughter from school, bring her back to my work and deal with the issue of having lost her backpack with her favorite things.  I can put out the fire that arises instead of trying to prevent the one that might occur.  The fireman has inspired me.  I know I can do it.  But I really wish I could find that backpack!