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| “No, please, tell me more about your Plan For The Day.” |
Some mornings I wake up with A Plan. And I know exactly how the day will unfold:
I’ll finally finish that scene. That one that’s kinda holding back the progress of this, the latest draft of twenty for this godforsaken play, and it will All Make Sense. (The success of this show, of course, will catapult me into crazy Financial Comfort. Because let’s be honest: I really don’t want fame. I’m way too tired for that. I want a nap. A nap in a super nice [yet well within our means] bed. Dream big, Flynn.)
The knowledge that I’ve done something Artistic and Useful will really free me up to examine our home and all of the ways which I’ve [oh-so recently] been neglecting the heck outta it. Kitchen floors will be devoid of crumbs and whatever that thing in the corner by the table is. At least for an hour.
Obviously, the ability to balance a creative endeavor and maintain a non-filthy home will pave the way for what I really want for this day- and all of my days- I will be an Awesome Mom. Books and art projects and snacks that aren’t from week-old car seat Ziplocs. My daughters will hold my hands as we dance to totally appropriate music and snuggle on the [completely cat hair-free] couch.
My husband and I, drunk on the knowledge that we’re raising superb people in a relatively clean environment, will share Grownup Conversations and Meaningful Moments. (And be snoozing by 9pm.)
Doesn’t that sound like a wicked terrific day?
I think about that imaginary day at 8:20am, by which time I’ve already said things like “Is that what we do with fried eggs?” and pried the younger child’s leg from the freezer door. An hour later the script stares me in the face, taunting me with its lack of definition and overabundance of run on sentences. (Are you shocked?) This, of course, could all be due to the fact that I’m sitting on my knees on the kitchen chair, attempting to avoid touching crusts of Floor Bread with my socks.
And moments later, when a smallish person asks for help removing fitted sheets from her sister’s wonky dresser drawer, I manage the pull the entire thing down on my own foot, crushing my pinky toe into unsympathetic oblivion. (Because really- who gives a darn about someone else’s pinky toe, regardless of its future inability to be used? Ever.)
But while I’m down on the floor, wondering how the crime scene investigator will piece together the circumstances of my demise…the baby hands me a book. And then backs up into me, seating herself on my lap with nary a glance, absolutely certain that I’ll be there to catch her diapered bum.
And so I read to her. And she looks at me like I’m magic.
Which is all I really wanted out of this day, anyhow.
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