A Commentary on the Right Now

If I were posting regularly right now, I feel like my posts would be so predictable as to even feel like I'm bragging.  Or proclaiming myself for martyrdom.  Because here's what I would say, each and every day:

You guys, I am under water.  I don't know where the minutes go when they go, but they go, and I'm still under water. 

It's one of those things I don't like to mention because it almost feels like I'm slapping you, my friends, in your pretty cheeks; you're busy too, right?  So why is it okay for me to whine?  You, with the full-time job, and you, with your volunteer work, and you, with your homemade Halloween costumes, and you, with your medical issues, and you, with your deployed spouse -- 

You feel more important than me, with my messy house and growing kids.  I accomplish almost nothing all day -- nothing but the basics -- and I lay myself down at night and I don't feel extra-worn out, necessarily, but there's a nagging feeling that I'm leaving something off.  The feeling that I'm forgetting to do something very important.

Maybe that something is writing, because, let's face it, I need to spill my beans on a regular basis or they pile up and scatter across the floor I just finished sweeping.  Maybe that something is relaxation because, also facing it, I rush for most parts of each day. 

There are only so many chances to get to the grocery store between baby-naps and preschooler-pickup and first-grader-pickup and dinner prep and ballet and gymnastics, and, and...  And none of those chances include a spare second to really think about my thoughts.  So maybe the something I'm forgetting, the very important something, is attention. 

But no -- that can't be right.  I'm paying so very much attention to these darlings --



Sometimes I think I must be doing this wrong.  If I'm so behind and under and rushing and unable to catch hold of some spare minutes, I must be doing this wrong.  I must be a complete rookie, right?  Frazzled and thoughtless and late, perpetually late?  There are other moms who are better at this than I am, and they are calm.  They can find a stillness in which to lounge or think or write.  And they probably would tell me that it has to be cultivated and prioritized --

But Mia comes tiptoeing down the hallway in her pajamas -- I don't know it until I hear her small voice echoing down the wooden staircase.  The house is finally quiet after the day's little explosions, except: You forgot to sing Somewhere Over The Rainbow, mama.  She is not accusatory, nor is she beseeching, nor is she demanding.  She is simply there, stating a truth and wondering why the song disappeared.  It is my first alone minute in the past fourteen hours, but this little ritual, this origin of a memory, it beckons. 

I peel myself off the couch. 

And I tell myself that I am not doing this wrong, no; I'm maybe hopefully doing this as right as I know how, which is to fall into the rush and just let myself be swept along for the time being.  It's short and it's breathtaking, and I might not have the time to write.  Or the will.  Or the desire.  It's alright, because this is my correct and this is my song that cannot disappear, even if I forget to sing it.

Maybe.