It’s 12:34pm on Tuesday. The kids are at school. I’m repeatedly trying to finish up the dishes from this morning. I just found cold coffee in the microwave that was heated up and forgotten about at least an hour ago. The dryer, only partially loaded (and having been that way for at least 1.5 hours), awaits me with an open door, beckoning me to complete the task of transferring the wet clothes into it as I keep interrupting myself from this task to…surprise, surprise… finish the dishes. The radio’s on in the background as I’m trying to listen to Biden, but all that sinks into my brain is merely the sound of his voice as a steady white noise that’s barely audible behind my much louder thoughts about all the things I still need to do today, tomorrow, and beyond, and the constant questions about how am I going to fit them all in?–AND start my new work project soon–all the while worrying that I’ll forget some of these really REALLY IMPORTANT and URGENT things to do (aren’t they all really important and urgent?) even thought I already wrote most of them down…somewhere. It feels like I’ve done a lot this morning but if you ask me what I’ve accomplished it might be hard to actually verbalize it. Is this ADD? Typical mom overload? Bad genes? Good genes gone bad? And underneath all of the mental chaos is the relentless, underlying question wrapped in perpetual maternal guilt: “Just how badly am I screwing up my kids?”
Just another day. As Kurt Vonnegut used to write: Ho hum.
The Way I See It 