And so I’ve sat down to write another post several times this week.
This is what happens the second before I start to write, and therefore get no writing done:
The phone rings.
Mom/Dad: Whatcha doing?
Mom/Dad: You should write more about ME!
Me: OK, are you sure you guys hate each other? Because Mom/Dad said the same thing.
My massage therapist arrives for what I like to call my monthly maintenance. Even though I put her appointments on the calendar, the calendar lives behind the fruit bowl and never gets looked at. Let’s just say I’ve perfected the look of surprise on my face when Tracey arrives.
I have the aforementioned massage. Even though it isn’t one of those airy-fairy deals (I love those, too, but this isn’t that), my body feels all kinds of release, and I fall asleep. In related news, whenever I’m on the table, I realise I don’t breathe a lot. I mean, I do, but I hold my breath a lot, and I’m not very good at that thing people call y’know, ‘take a deep breath.’ I kinda never do that. Except maybe during a massage, which is also the only time I actually fall asleep these days, too.
And so, I wake up and feel too spaced out to write. Which is weird because ‘spaced out’ was my writing zone years ago. And now I’m old. And my zone is wherever I can get it, but obviously not just after a massage.
My very tall child is literally circling around the house on her bike and she rocks up and says ‘Um, Mum? I’m stuck.’
And I try to lift her out, but she’s actually stuck and the two of us are there for a half an hour going: ‘Breathe in…help me help you…how did you get in here?’
It’s Spring Break. Isla hasn’t been in school for 2 weeks. There’s been a lot of puzzles, an annoying magnetic fishing game complete with broken magnets, a road-trip, and so much togetherness that we had this conversation yesterday:
Isla: Mummy, go away.
Me: I don’t feel like it.
Isla: OK, but don’t make any noise, and don’t look at me.
Me: *starts to play the harmonica*
I have no space. I write on the kitchen table, encroached upon by stacks of books and pizza I’ve forgotten to eat. It’s like University without the hangover.
I’m good at writing about not writing. Apparently.
None of these are useable excuses.
What’s your excuse?
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Also published on Medium.