In the quiet of the afternoon
after the morning of playing and swinging and chores and errands
after the washing of hands and the sit-down lunch
after the rounds of may-I-be excused‘s
and the carrying of cups and plates from table to kitchen,
after the three-year-old says I’m ready to snoozy
and the two-year-old begs for “Night-Night Pooh”*
and tries to climb into his crib himself
after the baby is fed and put to bed
and the five-year-old hauls his basket of trains into the guest room for his quiet time
after the groceries are put away
after the coffee is re-heated
and the coffee cake is cut
and the only sound is the clock ticking
and the five-year-old sneezing
and the audio-book reading
I sit down to write.
everyday
Edit: For a continuation and completion of this train of thought, see this post on slow living and rest, and its second part, here.
On our drive home from Kentucky, I read the book The Quotidian Mysteries by Kathleen Norris.
As a full-time homemaker and mother, the frustration of the repetitive nature of everyday tasks is something I’ve grown incredibly familiar with. The doing of something only to have it immediately undone. Washing dishes to have them immediately dirtied. Sweeping the floor only to find a few minutes later it would need re-sweeping. The laundry basket that never, ever stayed empty.