Oh, That's Not Dog Hair . . . Our Carpet Color is "Labrador Blonde" (IT'S DOG HAIR)

At the moment I'm forgoing vacuuming; the washing, drying, and folding of laundry; decluttering; dishes; grading; typing up committee meeting notes; working on the creative writing festival; and probably an additional five items I can't remember at the moment because my brain is fried . . . in order to write a blog post. 

But it needed to happen, I suspect. Lest you all think I'd died. Also, I'm PROBABLY a lot healthier when I write regularly, even if the writing is not exactly diary-like and consists of simply sharing poems and articles I find on the internet. I looked here the other day and realized I hadn't written since the first day of school. And that, my friends, seems like a lifetime ago. (And yet strangely, I can't believe that September has passed and that we're almost halfway through the fall semester.)

Despite A.P.'s assertions that I look like a deer in headlights most Mondays, I think I'm doing all right with the three-kid system and the new campus and the overload schedule. What I'm not doing is writing regularly -- just a scrap of a poem here or there -- and while I'm not exactly happy about that I'm not beating myself up, either. I mean, I can barely find time to do the things for which I earn a paycheck, let alone the various writing projects I've decided to tackle. 

I really have little-to-no time to be cordial and chatty and friendly while at work, which sucks, but is absolutely necessary if I'm going to do the job(s) I'm supposed to be doing, and really, want to do, well. From the moment I get into the office I'm answering emails and/or preparing class notes or grading, and then at the end of the day -- whether it's an "early" day so that I can meet the kids off the bus, or whether it's a "late" day, where I stay on campus for committee meetings -- I'm rushing out the door. So I'm hoping my new colleagues (and the old ones, like A.P.) can forgive me and just ignore my really myopic, self-absorbed state, and that later, in a few months (or *gulp*  . . . years) perhaps I can be more like my old self. I feel like the only way I'm going to survive these years of baby-raising is to become increasingly asocial and focused on my family.

Of course, A.P. suggested I change my religion (or form my own, I suppose) and acquire myself some kind of brother-husband (think Mormon sister-wife ...) who can do all the child-shuttling, baby-feeding, domestic drudgery for me, and yes, that would be lovely and excellent. Except that I don't really WANT to relinquish all of this stuff. And also I think brother-husbands would probably be just as creepy as sister-wives. (Well, on second thought, the laundry and vacuuming and decluttering I would be HAPPY to relinquish . . . so maybe I can get over my squeamishness about polygamy . . . ). 

Um, where the hell was I?

Oh yeah. Being a control freak. Right.

Like I was saying, I really like my time with my kids and my husband; I value it. In particular I'm cherishing, as those old folks keep reminding me to do, this point in the baby's life: "It goes so fast!" they say. "Bite me, grandpa!" say I back. And then I flip the ol' geezer the bird and pop a tire on his Rascal. 

But once again, I digress.

My problem is the problem it's always been: I want to do everything. But I can't. So "suck it up, Gutowski," is pretty much the order of the day. The ONLY kind of order to my day, apparently. And I shall soldier on, and eventually I'll figure out how to do this. 

Or die. Death might come first. 

Yay! Happy Weekend, everybody!


Popular posts from this blog

Podcasts, Poetry, and Post-post-post Modern Memoir (and Wild Turkeys and Bathroom Demo)

Artist Residency in Motherhood 2019

Micro-Sabbatical 2019