anxiety, Identity, Living

Desperately Seeking a Daytimer

Second rewarm of my tea this morning.  Second start to holiday vacation for my kids thanks to a snowstorm.  Second application of warm socks and boots for the youngest who managed to lose her left one in a fall.

Final and total, complete agitation.

I rose to the insistent plying of my youngest to make her ‘brefkast’.  A detour into her sister’s room to find her playing on her iPad kept her there and left me alone with my laptop.  Instead of writing the three posts I should be or researching and revising the short story I should be, I putted around with email, online statuses, and reading blogs and comments other people had written.

I’m about as mushy as this 4-8 inches of snow will be once the temperature soars to a balmy 48 degrees on Monday.

How many pains in the asses do we have to feel before we become a cranky ass?

I’ve gone too long without a routine, this I know.  The four to five days following Christmas where we ambled out for a hike once we actually got dressed, ate whenever we wanted, and cuddled in actual or electronic firelight were divine.  I sorely needed them.  But one day of waking early, rushing to the bus stop, running errands, etc. etc, etc, and then back to that loosey-goosey schedule was not enough.  As much as I hate working to a clock, leaving me to structure my own days is a little like playing with that actual fire.

Plus, as excited as I am about some new ventures coming down the pike, they’re new and therefore anxiety-inducing.  Will I succeed?  Will I have enough time to complete my new tasks in addition to my existing ones?  Will I be able to create enough quality content for three blogs? (Rob and Ruby, if you’re reading . . . of course, I can! 😉 ) Perfectionism is the enemy, but if I’m putting my name to it, it best be good.  Nothing like self-induced panic and pressure.

We’re in that in-between state where the merriment of the holidays is no more, but it’s unclear what this new year will be.  Unknown strikes fear into the heart of the fear-a-phobe.

Which I suppose is why I sorely need a schedule.  One trivial, nitpicky way to get some tiny semblance of control over the whirling dervish that is now – my thoughts, my responsibilities, my needs, my children, my irrational, unfounded worries.  That should be one hell of a calendar.