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February is over and done with and hoo-boy. I looked up and realized that I basically missed that whole month.
So on Sunday night I smugly sat down to schedule out my week so that I wouldn’t miss any bill-paying deadlines or forget a kid’s Library Book Day and also still get lots of work done. I noted all of my existing commitments and wrote down pickup times and activities and such even though I know them by heart, all in effort to lay out a visual picture of the week so I could assess the “free” time and plug in my Things To Do accordingly. I used my paper planner, my Google calendar, my wall calendar, and my notebook. And my phone. I was all in.
The problem is I think I forgot that I’m getting old and I can’t stay up late anymore. Or that I had double-booked my Wednesday night. Or that some of my Things To Do actually take more research and/or thinking to actually DO. I mean, you can’t rush art.
So here I am 1.5 days into the week and already I’m behind – a lot. I have no choice but to stick to my pre-scheduled commitments but the ongoing projects that I thought I could weasel into the days are taking a lot longer than I expected.
I just wrote a post that appeared on Agoura Hills Mom and BlogHer called “Lower Your Expectations: Tips For a Family Road Trip.” I think I’m going to have to apply that mantra to my entire life, at least my own productivity.
The good news is that I am not freaking out about this. One of my commitments was a Thai massage – I took a few hours out of my day to drive, experience, and return from this massage and I must say it was a wonderful boost for my attitude. In other times my head would be spinning, but today I am able to say “I cannot accomplish this today – I will need to push my self-appointed deadline forward. And that’s okay.”
Wake me when my Kindergartener starts first grade, please.
I’ve been singing this lately as I clean, or fold clothes, or cut the 1,000th Box Tops For Education cardboard square. It’s not exactly a happy working song, but I find it sort of soothing, and sort of sad.
Years gone by and still
Words don’t come easily
Like forgive me
I had this song on a cassette tape that a rideshare girl made me in college. We listened to the same mix tapes of Tracy Chapman and Fleetwood Mac over and over again on a 14-hour drive – both ways – between Notre Dame and Connecticut during my freshman year. That was 100 years ago. Her name was Sherry and I am embarrassed to realize that I don’t remember her last name. I am forever grateful to her for the music, and for my lifelong love of turkey subs with a little mayo, some lettuce, and a sprinkling of black pepper.