Mom CaveI take the dog out, and can see waves of blurred heat flowing up against the back of our house. Only 9:30 and it is already uncomfortably hot. Not a day I will want to be in the garden, or even at the pool. I make coffee, wipe up stray crumbs, but the table still looks grimy. The boys want to play outside, and I tell them as I always do to stay where they can see the house. Don't play in the street. I ought to be able to relax when they're out of my hair, but I can't. When they're out there, anxiety is like that mysterious buzz of electrical sound that you can't place or ignore and it's probably just a light bulb or the fridge, and you wonder if you're just noticing it now or if it's always been there.
I bring coffee to my husband. I make breakfast. The boys play at the neighbors, and eventually I bring them home, putting off their demands for pancakes because I just cooked. And it's hot, and I don't want to cook again already over a hot griddle.
They want to play on the computers. Their lives seem to be lived in two modes: being on the computer or wanting to be on the computer. Peace is just a power button away. But I resist giving in. I must. That's what good moms do.
But I would like to be a good writer today who isn't interrupted by squabbles over imaginary gun battles, or the repetitive snack request. I would like for my space, my time, my attention, to be a well appointed cavern that is cool and dark, where no one can find me, and where I can't hear anything past the noise of the waterfall my cavern is hidden behind. Maybe dappled sunlight comes though the waterfall in a dance of light and color, and maybe I'll allow my dog to be there, because she'll ask for very little except to curl up on my lap and sleep. And when all the circumstances are just so, I'll write something so brilliant, so true, so lovely as to make you weep.
Satisfied, I'll go make pancakes for the boys.
Last modified: 2017-10-16 03:09:44
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