The Responsible Party

Pulling up the driveway of my home tonight I surveyed my fading Geraniums, noticed the dead-heads on the rose bushes.  Mental check list kicks in; need to water and prune ASAP.   Been away a while and it shows.  

 It's just me and the dogs tonight.  They are hot and weary from our recent hike, which had fed me, left me feeling replenished, pumped up, plus deliciously peaceful all at the same time; until I saw that my front door was standing wide open and clearly had been for hours.  

Dag-nab-it, who is responsible for this?!  Who can I yell at?  I look to the dogs, think of my kids.

Stamp goes my foot, down go my keys thrown hard on the ground, which sets off the panic button and sounds the car alarm.  

Sh_t!  ... and so who can I blame that on?  

I look around some more, stop the sounding horn, call back the upset pups.  

The reality is, there is no one to blame it on, except me.  I am it.  

I am the responsible party here.

Sometimes that realization drains me.   Sometimes it drains every drop of blood, joy, hope, freedom, life, juice out of me.

Like pulling a plug on a happily, lazily, taken for granted, full tub of gorgeous, tepid water - slurp, burp, all the good feelings vanish right from me.

I am solely responsible for everything and everyone in my proximate life.

The kids, the house, the dogs, the flowers, the car, the .... whatever.  It's mine and I am the responsible party.  

How frightening.

For some reason this thought, this fact, on this night, brings tears to my eyes.  Big ones.  

Big, plump tears roll off my checks; like pulling a plug on two, full, pedestal sinks, out goes the gorgeous, tepid fluid and my eyes drain till they are pretty close to empty.

Suddenly I can't stop noticing the pile up of things to do here.  Would you believe that even the roof needs sweeping?  It does.  Once a year or so I find a way to get on the peaked roof of my massive garage and push a broom across it to remove the dried leaves, scattered, small bit of branches, miscellaneous debris, that rain down from the hundreds of acres of wilderness behind my home.  I do it in a cute gardening dress of course, but I do it and its kind of hard and more then a little scary.  When I'm done I like to lie on the roof, look at the sky, feel closer to heaven and the birds.   It's the pay off for accomplishing the job.  Its good pay, trust me.  

Thinking of lying on the roof makes me feel better, better enough to want to not weep.  I scrape up some composure, go to the mirror, try to see what I look like when I cry (yea I know), blow my nose, but because I am responsible for every single thing, I cannot in good conscience put Klenex in the actual trash pail of the bathroom.  I'd have to empty it, it's only for guests to use.  So I behave responsibly and lift the toilet seat lid to toss my tissue, but, to my utter shock, as I do this, out hops a small frog.  A frog jumps out at me.  It was apparently sitting in my toilet, for I'm guessing about 11 days.  That was the last time someone might have used this particular room. 

 Sh_t again!! 

  I scream.  I jump.  Slam the door and shed another tear.  This time though the tear comes with laugher.  Laughing and crying. 

When my heart stops pounding and I stop laughing/crying/whatevering, I wonder if I am now also responsible for the frog.  

Probably so.  

My life is my party and I am responsible for it.  

That's alright with me.