…restraint

In the pell-mell plunge of priorities, I’ve found that it is important to exercise some restraint—to calmly and rationally select which endeavors I should pursue and in which order.

In the event that I am overwhelmed with choices, I must arrange for someone to act as my restraint—to stand behind me, to wrap both arms around my waist and shoulders in a T-bar grip and to yell in my ear, loud enough to be heard over the clamoring enticements, “Just Say No!”

To: realmom@time.out
It’s been one of those days—I write a talk, make six loaves of bread, and two batches of soup for a party while I deflect calls from school about detention. I commiserate with the neighbor, and clean up breakfast as I fix lunch.

I pack the truck for the next excursion, pick up the neighbor and drive her to her car across town. I email the principal, pick up one child, drop it off at piano lessons and run to the flower shop. I then dash home to arrange them, and pick up the other child to swap out at piano. I encourage the child that was the piano player to switch clothes and mental processes from musical notes to karate chops and then drop him at the sports practice de jour, angling to hit every stop light so I can brush my hair, apply makeup, and search through my purse for the missing house keys.

I want more time, not to relax on the back porch, but more time to be busier, to schedule more things into the space that I don’t have time for now. Gotta run, T.

In the event that no one is willing to act as my personalized handbrake, I must live with the consequences. My reality veers off in a completely new direction—without prior consent.

Reality Bite: Busy (Buried under satan's yoke) is an excuse that makes me neither capable nor culpable.