So now I’ve made this decision to write. Every day. For a little while, anyway. It started out as half an hour, but I think I would be willing to settle for something less, say, four and a half minutes. And I plan to keep hitting the keys regardless of what is appearing on the screen, without regard even for the hordes I’m sure are reading this and their delicate sensibilities.
I come in from a canceled meeting while my daughter still has control of her two small brothers, and I beg for a little time to work on some things. I ignore that twisty thing she does with her mouth when she is displeased and make my way upstairs to where one computer is. The first stop is the bathroom to wash my hands because they are sticky feeling, and everyone knows you can’t concentrate with sticky hands. While peeing, I notice that my clothes are really sweaty, and I need them clean for Friday, so I strip naked and carry the clothes to the laundry room. I proceed to my room to find a shirt that I will not need to have clean, because my body is still quite sweaty, and I put on one that I can’t wear in public anyway since it says something vaguely sexual and heaven knows we can’t have a late-thirty-something-year-old woman walking around being sexual. I wrestle some underwear over my sweaty legs and hips and then cannot find the only comfortable shorts I own. I look and look then realize I’m wasting precious babysitting time so I say to hell with it and sit down in front of the computer in my underwear and shirt (but not before washing my hands once more because by this time they are feeling sticky again).
The first thing I tackle is my email. Yes, I know. But who doesn’t do this, really? Then I try to log in here and realize I never changed my password from the funky combination of letters and numbers WordPress sent to me when I couldn’t remember my password last night. I click back to the other tab and sign into the correct email to find the gibberish password, then log in and promptly change it to something I can actually remember. I notice, while on my profile page, that I have no biographical info so I spend thirty seconds or so being clever and concise (hence my teeny, tiny bio), and right after I hit save I also see I have no avatar. This will not do. I have to extend the irony of my writing to a photograph of something preferably not human, not even animal, but arty. Say, a piece of graffiti. With the browser open I am looking for said photo when the teenage daughter comes up and announces that baby has pooped. I know better than to question her regarding why she doesn’t FIX IT by CHANGING the baby, so I get up to do it myself. The medium child then insists he is not ready for bed, he wants more Sponge Bob. Don’t we all? I am getting irritated because the hour I had is now down to thirty minutes and I haven’t written one word (except the bio, don’t forget that) and I start snapping at the children. Baby is crawling around the floor now, only half clean while I deal with the dirty diaper, and medium one decides to hit him with a vacuum cleaner which prompts intense crying. In me, I mean.
I now find myself on the floor assembling the diaper onto baby when I am asked by the teen girl, “Why aren’t you wearing any pants?” My answer, though unintelligible to her, was pithy and wonderful and I cannot recreate it here. It was something to the effect of “I was running out of time and I know you are tired and I couldn’t find them and I just wanted to get some work done and now I’m almost out of time.” In her sweet, perceptive way, she replied, “You were just looking at pictures.” This was during the avatar upload debacle. I told her no, I was working on my blog, and she said, “Yeah? What is that? I thought you were working.“
I was actually glad she asked about the pants, since it revealed that she finds it unusual for me to be pantsless, although in truth it is quite common for me to not quite make it to the pants putting on stage of getting dressed since I am constantly interrupted by small humans. Tooth brushing and shoe wearing also frequently suffer.
Now I sit, finally wearing my fig leaf shorts to cover the noticed nakedness, and I write. I write because I said I would. Because I am full of words. Because I must. I am the voice in the wilderness of motherhood crying out. And if I fall in the forest and no one reads the blog, did it happen? Indeed. It did.