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My children just left for a weekend with their father.
I spent the day trying to clear piddly little jobs out of the way so that I could concentrate after they’d left; nevertheless, I still have dishwasher, washer and dryer running even as I write this. No matter how hard I try simply to be done — even briefly done! — with dishes and laundry, I cannot break free from their constant pull.
Before they left we put away toys. I made a quick pass with vacuum and mop. I changed sheets, paid bills, refilled diapering supplies, and cleared the counters one last time.
I prepared a little basket of things that usually I cannot keep in plain sight because of sticky-fingered raids: lipgloss, cell phone, remote, drink, gum. This I placed on a table next to my comfy chair. I dragged over the laptop, still cord-bound because I can’t manage to get back on my wireless network and I refuse to make any more attempts until after this project is done.
Briefly I considered the use of a bedpan or an adult diaper, but I decided that might be taking things just a wee bit too far.
Why go through all these machinations? Because if I hadn’t cleaned and straightened before they left, that’s all I’d have done after they were gone. Given the choice, it appears that I’ll consistently select obsessive organization over more important but trickier tasks.
Like, say, the task of finishing a book proposal.
Organizing is a job at which I cannot fail. Even if I do it poorly, it will be undone so quickly that no one will be the wiser. But writing a book proposal? I could fail at that. I could fail spectacularly at that.
I imagine the agent reacting to the proposal like Randy Jackson reacts to crappy performances on American Idol: “Yo dawg, I gotta tell you, I’m just not feeling it,” she’d say, and then she’s suck air through her teeth. “It’s not your best performance. You know you’ve gotta bring it if you’re gonna succeed at this level.” And then I’d slink away, tail curled between my legs, unable ever to write another word again.
But I will not give in to fear. Instead, I’m parking my happy ass in this chair and not moving (except for sleep and bathroom breaks) until this book proposal is done.
Or until my children get back. Whichever comes first.
Wish me luck! And perseverance, because even now I can feel my pantry crying out for reorganization, and and I really should do something about the garage, and the recycling needs to go in, and oh! I need to cut my toenails, and…



