Tag Archives: mothering

Freak outs, Interruptions, Mandala

Computer freak over the weekend.  I am NOT a PDA owner, I have an ordinary phone, I’ve sent perhaps six text messages so far and two never made it because I pressed the wrong button, I can go on vacation and not look at a screen — but this weekend, when a virus made our whole system go ga-ga, I panicked.  A little.  (And, probably only a little because I have such faith in my husband’s ability to fix these things).

And Ken DID fix it over the weekend — two days re-whatevering, and it seemed fixed — but yesterday, the weird pop ups popped up again.  And again.  Oh, GOD AND AGAIN!

So, if I disappear for awhile, you’ll know why.

And then, there are the interruptions.  The interruptions associated with having a recently disabled sister in need of lots of help (yes, she’s getting better, but housing? work? benefits? — the list is substantial)…  as well as the tasks associated with having two teenage children —

trips to the dermatologist, the dentist, the orthodontist, attending track meets, ordinary pick ups and drop offs, homework review, homework nag, computer supervision, computer nag, cooking, shopping, making lunch, making breakfast, cleaning up from breakfast, making dinner, making snacks before dinner, washing clothes, folding clothes, hunting for things like a particular sweatshirt or the mate to a ski glove,

and other jobs —

hunting for the source of stink in the fridge, cleaning the containers that held the stink in the fridge, cleaning out a closet now and then, stripping beds (I’ll never admit how ‘now and then’ THAT gets done), scrubbing tubs and toilets, unearthing the dining room table, looking for a summer cottage for 14, vacuuming up dog hair, walking the dog, asking other people to walk the dog, bathing the dog, cleaning up after my sister’s cat, feeding the cat, getting the car in for brake-fix, putting shit away, hanging up wet towels (Oh, wait a minute that last item belongs up with having two teenage boys in the house), putting more shit away…

all these things have a way of taking up time without necessarily granting me (or anyone?) the sense of having ‘done’ anything…

This is not a complaint, truly, not a complaint, but an observation that (I believe for cultural reasons having to do with gender), I have to keep making over and over.  I have to keep noticing over and over how my time is ‘not my own’ — not only because I forget, but because in forgetting, the accumulated pile of things not-done have a way of starting to criticize me.

And then, of course, there are the queries (upheld by various practices that I needn’t go into) —

why does anything attain the status of ‘interruption’?  Why is anything deemed unimportant?  Why can’t I see that things unfold as they should…

Ahhhhhhh.  There’s the rub.

Above, a mid-winter mandala that I don’t know what to do with — not a pillow, not a wall-hanging — don’t know.  But it cheers me up to look at its hot, bright colors.

In the Upper Field with Jack this morning (Bowen/Thompsonville field, not Heaven!), the light spoke straight to my heart about spring.  Snow squalls on the way this afternoon, frigid temps returning this weekend, I know, I know, but the light does not lie… the oaks ringing the field were awash in a lemony-rose color that tickled my chest in a way that only people who live in wintry climes understand.