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.