As is typically the way when we go camping, we’ve come home with minor bugs. My throat scratches and I keep feeling flushed. Nothing a little rest can’t sort out, I’m sure.
I want to bank up some time to devote to this space; I don’t feel like I’ve been keeping it properly. I want to, but do I need to? Well, that is a different question. It’s all going quicker and quicker, like fast forwarding frames on a DVD. The notes from school are piling up, I’m getting impatient text messages that tell me I need to pay now some invoice or another. Our shopping has become lazy and slip-shod: we go to buy bread and milk and bananas only to come home to discover that out of practically any food goods in existence, have ever existed, or are yet to be divined in this universe (or any infinite alternate realities), that bread and milk and bananas were the things we least required. We’ve got loads!
{Pause to throw a load of washing in the dryer.}
{Pause again to check the time. Wonders whether the kids ought to be in bed. Decide they can have another ten minutes.}
I’m very curious to hear how other working mothers manage to manage everything. Or any mother – period. I don’t think this change in work/blogging/home/kids/whatevs has fully hit me yet. I suppose the shoe will drop at some point, like when a child wakes up with a barking cough…
{Pause to fill up Riley’s humidifier, as he’s the one with the cough.}
… and the regular schedule will go flying out the window.
We shall see. In the meantime, I will keep on doing my best, such as it is.
Before I go, a particular favourite photo from camping:
I’ve had these boots (I’m the one on the right with black leggings and brown socks (bringing camping chic into the 21st century! Or not…) since I was seventeen years old. There was a time I couldn’t even wear them; when I was barely able to get myself around, too thin to walk very far – let alone in very heavy Colorados. I’ve tossed out nearly all the clothes I own from that period. Partly because I wouldn’t fit into them anymore: there’s nothing to be proud about the fact that at eighteen years old you need to buy your clothes in the tween section at Target because women’s sizes don’t fit.
But I’ve kept the boots. I’m stronger now. I can handle them.
Top image source: miniplot
