Down Time

I am at my sister's house. Just me, an orange and white cat I have to keep pushing off my lap, a cup of coffee and milk, and a huge bucket of blueberries. There is no schedule. No agenda. No need to look at my watch to see when I need to start an activity so I can finish it in time for lunch and a nap. No need for a watch, really, but it's still on my wrist because life feels funny without it. No computer, no internet slowly sucking away the minutes of my life. I am writing on a piece of paper, my cramped hand reminding me that I haven't done this in a long time. It is used to hurried notes on Post-its and scribbles and lines on big dry erase boards. It doesn't remember how to write legibly on a yellow legal pad.

I am reading a book written by a mom of teen-aged boys, struggling to figure out who they are as she struggles to figure out how to be a mom to such changing beings. It strikes a chord. Makes me wonder if I need to re-examine. Plan less, be more spontaneous, say yes more, say no only when I must. Is the world really going to care if my two-year-old sits at the table with his legs hanging off the side of his chair, instead of the front? Why do I care, really, beyond just knowing that I told him once, and all the smart parenting books say you have to be consistent. If he had the ability to ask "why" when I told him to do something, I'm not sure I'd have an answer beyond "Because I said so."

Some time today, after another cup of coffee, seven more trips to the bathroom, and some more reading, I will head back to Lansing. Back to the house that I have known for all 37 years of my life. The house that inexplicably transforms me in to a sullen teenager, unsure how to act. The house I love despite how I dislike the way it makes me feel, physically and emotionally. I will head back to my husband and my dad and somehow try to make them realize that I love them and appreciate them and their efforts at a huge PA household renovation. I will tread lightly, as I know they are licking their wounds and healing their bruised egos. These are not boys who give up easily, and I know they are disappointed. I am not. They worked hard. They made some wonderful progress, and I look forward to seeing it. I will head back to my son who is wonderful and wondrous and quirky and cute, and at the same time tired and grouchy and testing boundaries and wholly, undeniably, two. And I will head back to my mom and try, once again, to right a relationship that I seem to always get wrong.

But not yet. There's more coffee. I've barely made a dent in the blueberries. There's another chapter of my book. And there is silence. Comfortable. Warm. Peaceful. Life will be there later. The world will manage without me for a few more hours.