I did less today than maybe I've ever done in a day. Without having been in a hospital bed or a cast or something. The kids had a friend over - two actually, twins - and they played and I hung out in my room reading the paper, reading a book, dozing. I NEVER nap. Never. Kind of nice. I also got some stuff organized. Papers and the like. Nothing more satisfying that being organized, for me anyway.
I have an odd relationship with relaxing. I don't like it particularly. I have to force myself to do it. Makes me feel guilty. But today I kind of felt proud of myself. I left the kids to their own devices, let them do their thing, while I did mine.
I'd meant to write some chapters of this young adult book I've been propositioned to write. Once again, I failed. Couldn't do it.
I was bemoaning my laziness over dinner with my kids. "I just can't get this thing started," I said. "Why? Why can't I just do this? Am I lazy?" (I know this is ridiculous. I say I did nothing. And yet, I cleaned the house, grocery shopped, paid the bills, read the NYT, made a nice dinner of salmon & kale & rice pilaf. I'm a kook. With a capital K. In my head I know I'm not lazy. In my heart, I always worry/wonder.)
"I don't think that's it, mom. You're not lazy," said my oldest. This was on the heels of a conversation a few days ago about how men are lazy and women's aren't, according to Virgil. A subject he raised. I was torn about agreeing with him. I think there's some truth to it - my pride in the female work ethic rearing it's occasionally ugly feminist head; though certainly men aren't consistently lazy, they just like relaxing more than women, I think. The being torn comes because I certainly don't want to impugn the male gender to my two sons...hmmm what to do? Hell, he brought it up!
Then why can't I get this started?
You don't want to write this book. Write something else.
And thus, the wisdom of our children guides us. Smart kid. And he's only 11. Imagine...