Here I go again. Every now and then I feel this powerful urge to quit blogging.
Enough already. I am getting so little done around here as it is, and even what is accomplished is uniquely mediocre. I don't even know what it means to be "uniquely mediocre," but sometimes talking fancy satisfies an itch.
So here I am in the midst of an "I should quit" crisis. Then I thought that I could not possibly finish blogging when my last post was a romp across the fields of Narcissia. So, naturally I have been trying to think of brilliant and insightful, humorous, sentimental, intelligent, thought provoking, creative and artful stuff. Something really good to blog about. I got nothing.
Okay then. Nothing it is. Here goes.
Some of my children have been academically
Well, that was not so much "nothing." It was actually a whole lot of something. Something I am sure will make a couple of people around here uncomfortable, but life is uncomfortable sometimes, right?
Besides feeling the angst and late nights of navigating academic frontiers, I have my own shortcomings to contend with. I think my biggest personal challenge is making thirty six hours fit in to twenty four hours, and making at least twelve of those hours actually productive. In other words: I am behind. I am neglectful. I am looking for a time machine.
I would like to go back to about December tenth or eleventh.
Maybe that wouldn't make any difference, but I do need to find a way to make a difference. I cannot seem to get over myself and the feeling that I am effectively, systematically failing. I want to be settled in our home, in such a way that I am not starting from the beginning, learning where the cheese grater is and where we put the three ring hole punch. I want all boxes unpacked, pictures, hung, trees planted, garden beds made and ready for seeds... why? Why, because I have achieved those things before. I have unpacked and settled in and made planters and set up house, but all of it was torn down... many times it has been torn down, and I feel like if I cannot get to that place where we are within a space close to balanced or semi-normal, that I will never succeed. Just making lunches and keeping a good supply of clean socks manages to fill my days and the rest is left undone or done very mediocrely.
Wishful, silly me keeps thinking that if it were still December, if we hadn't got so darned sick, then I could send Christmas cards and hang those lights. I want that. That idealized picture of peace in home, and home all clean, children joyful and thank you cards sent. Then, then maybe colds and homework and getting to the post office would not be so daunting... if the foundation were there, dependable and trusted, then I could build up. At least that is what I imagine.
Move forward. I know. I have to just keep moving forward. I may be afraid. I think I am scared that any progress, any success in making things beautiful and moved-in will result in another tear down, start over move. I think I do not know or trust how to be at home. I am confused. Gee, it's hard enough without being scared.
Yesterday I planted four bare roots trees. And I may have done it wrong, or at least not as perfectly as in the garden book illustrations. Mediocre Me. Two more trees and a lot of grapes need to get planted, but I need more wire baskets and holes. I also need to volunteer in Maria's school, reconfigure the barn, pay the bills, organize my office, thank Jennifer for a dear gift, get the cats to the vet, clean the
And that is why I should quit blogging. Because obviously I have too much to do and blogging is one of those things that gets in the way of getting real stuff done. And that is why I will not quit blogging... because under duress, I cannot resist the compulsion to hang my dirty laundry high on the line, where I can gaze on it and reflect and try to make sense of it all.
Oh dear. Look at it all hanging there and flapping in the breeze.