Tuesday, September 15, 2009

typical day

coffee clinks on my bedside table; check in to see which body parts hurt today; curse ageing; pry allergy-ridden eyeballs open; put Addie's hair in pigtails; kiss Nolie and Eric goodbye; shower; take birth control so all of this never happens again.

check emails while Addie plays. Make a list of things that need to be done because of emails; read articles that emails link to; shake my head at the sorry state of the world, because most of my emails are from climate change blogs; look at a few emails from craft blogs and wish I could stay home and futz in my office/studio instead of go to work. Worry about my children's future in this sorry world.

subsume. shake it off. a beautiful morning, and life is so good. the world is good, not sorry. forgot.

Addie to bus stop.

head to work. Prep class (if I remember to, apparently); grade papers; attend meetings; put out fires I started by my very own self; start new ones; teach class; cram lunch from home in my gob; read an article or two if I'm lucky. Work on article I'm writing if I'm lucky.

on the way home, stop at library, post office, and/or grocery store.

race to Nolie's school to pick her up in time so that we make it home before Addie's bus drops her off; if we're lucky, unload the car; pick Addie up at the bus stop; race home to prepare both girls a snack before they have a meltdown. If we're lucky.

unload kids' lunchboxes and mine; wash out the litle food containers and set to dry; make coffee for the next morning; load up all the lunches; make a vegan/organic dinner that the kids won't hork up onto their plates from disgust; set aside a plate for Eric; clean up dinner dishes; sweep floor.

vacuum, or scoop the kitty box, or play with the kids on the hammock, or go grocery shopping, or bake a birthday cake, or sign permission forms, or call the contractor who is supposed to be staining our house, or talk to the kids' teachers about our kids, the one who reads like a 3rd grader but forgets to put on underwear, the other who kisses you one minute, bites you the next because she needs more of your time, your attention, your love; because she's three.

eric gets home and crams food in his gob while I go out for a run or collapse on the couch; kids in bath; read to kids; kids in bed; kids out of bed; kids back in bed; kids out of bed; get kids water/bandaids/saline; kids back in bed. Maybe sleeping.

then? sewing? reading? television? sex? conversation? meditation?


maybe. if we're lucky.

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