purple
I believe it is called multi-tasking. If all this multi-tasking burnt calories the way it burns brain cells, then I would be skinnier than my sunflower stalks.
Yesterday I took a break as it was Wednesday which about once a month involves no paid work and no meetings and I had deemed it a special occasion. I weeded part of the garden and admired my leeks, my borage, the sheer size of some of my weeds and almost but not quite planted some plants before it rained. I did not launder, I did not cook and I did not give any consideration to the relationship between acronyms and live human beings.
Today I had a lot of food made by eight am, a lot of people dressed and in the right places and I was going to be a paid working mother maximising the first 40 minutes into A Lot of Things Achieved. Only on the wall at work was my name beside an activity taking place this very evening, the kind of activity where I needed to be Ms Working Woman with no short people hanging off my skirt or careering up and down the hallway. Or pinching the boss's bottom, as my son did one night in the pub when my big boss was rather new.
Which is very short notice. I got a tad worked up as I do actually like to be professional about my work only I need more than seven hours' notice if that is going to involve lining up evening childcare.
But I have very supportive bosses (even the one whose bottom was pinched) which is how they agreed that it wasn't possible for me to be there and that Work World would certainly not fall down without me. Instead, I am marathoning on the kitchen front for the boy with hollow legs.
I took the boy with hollow legs to see Laksme, the therapist with angel wings which envelope me every time I see her. His request, which was very interesting to me. Some health intuition developing already. She agrees about the omega 3 oils and says he needs more magnesium and that chocolate is a good source which of course we all loved utterly and entirely. We also grabbed some more epsom salts for magnesium-rich baths as none of us can live by chocolate alone.
Today we went to the hairdresser as my short people love getting their haircut and also because neither of them could see out of their eyes properly. They have kindly explained to me that I have no training in hairdressing when I offered to keep my cash and cut their hair myself.
We also went to kindy as my daughter has thrown down the vestiges of babyhood and begun her journey through institutional education. She shows no anguish while I, the one who has risen from slumber to tend her every need most nights out of the last one thousand, feel like crying.
I have done absolutely nothing on the Blackball working class history project even though we are organising the entire opening to be held mere weeks away. I have no idea how to evade the newsletter about the friends of the kindy meeting for fundraising. I don't know how to square my delight in a community facility which involves parents instead of being a drop-off mega-institutional-money-making childcare facility for people who don't want to be part of the decision making with the fact that I have no idea how I would fit in selling more bloody raffle tickets and most likely selling Easter buns to boot.
The washing machine man has charged for parts only, after the wash-house flooded as soon as I used the newly-repaired machine. The panel-beater and the telecom people and the mechanic may or may not have sent their bills today; I refuse to check the mail until tomorrow.
Amongst all this, I have chosen a colour for the 2010 winter knitting project. I decided against the red as it would clash with all the other red things I would want to wear at the same time. The beautiful fernery soft green was out of stock and discontinued as idiots run large wool companies these days and have no idea what we all love. But purple was available and it is a gorgeous strong purple with a lovely warmth to it. So purple it is. Feminist knitting while the bathroom germs grow and the laundry pile waits.
Yesterday I took a break as it was Wednesday which about once a month involves no paid work and no meetings and I had deemed it a special occasion. I weeded part of the garden and admired my leeks, my borage, the sheer size of some of my weeds and almost but not quite planted some plants before it rained. I did not launder, I did not cook and I did not give any consideration to the relationship between acronyms and live human beings.
Today I had a lot of food made by eight am, a lot of people dressed and in the right places and I was going to be a paid working mother maximising the first 40 minutes into A Lot of Things Achieved. Only on the wall at work was my name beside an activity taking place this very evening, the kind of activity where I needed to be Ms Working Woman with no short people hanging off my skirt or careering up and down the hallway. Or pinching the boss's bottom, as my son did one night in the pub when my big boss was rather new.
Which is very short notice. I got a tad worked up as I do actually like to be professional about my work only I need more than seven hours' notice if that is going to involve lining up evening childcare.
But I have very supportive bosses (even the one whose bottom was pinched) which is how they agreed that it wasn't possible for me to be there and that Work World would certainly not fall down without me. Instead, I am marathoning on the kitchen front for the boy with hollow legs.
I took the boy with hollow legs to see Laksme, the therapist with angel wings which envelope me every time I see her. His request, which was very interesting to me. Some health intuition developing already. She agrees about the omega 3 oils and says he needs more magnesium and that chocolate is a good source which of course we all loved utterly and entirely. We also grabbed some more epsom salts for magnesium-rich baths as none of us can live by chocolate alone.
Today we went to the hairdresser as my short people love getting their haircut and also because neither of them could see out of their eyes properly. They have kindly explained to me that I have no training in hairdressing when I offered to keep my cash and cut their hair myself.
We also went to kindy as my daughter has thrown down the vestiges of babyhood and begun her journey through institutional education. She shows no anguish while I, the one who has risen from slumber to tend her every need most nights out of the last one thousand, feel like crying.
I have done absolutely nothing on the Blackball working class history project even though we are organising the entire opening to be held mere weeks away. I have no idea how to evade the newsletter about the friends of the kindy meeting for fundraising. I don't know how to square my delight in a community facility which involves parents instead of being a drop-off mega-institutional-money-making childcare facility for people who don't want to be part of the decision making with the fact that I have no idea how I would fit in selling more bloody raffle tickets and most likely selling Easter buns to boot.
The washing machine man has charged for parts only, after the wash-house flooded as soon as I used the newly-repaired machine. The panel-beater and the telecom people and the mechanic may or may not have sent their bills today; I refuse to check the mail until tomorrow.
Amongst all this, I have chosen a colour for the 2010 winter knitting project. I decided against the red as it would clash with all the other red things I would want to wear at the same time. The beautiful fernery soft green was out of stock and discontinued as idiots run large wool companies these days and have no idea what we all love. But purple was available and it is a gorgeous strong purple with a lovely warmth to it. So purple it is. Feminist knitting while the bathroom germs grow and the laundry pile waits.
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