Now that summer preschool camp has come to an end, life is extremely busy as I organize excursions that will benefit the small mind and help it to expand in positive, utterly enriching ways (I’m talking about the enrichment that makes the target scream, “Oh my goodness, wook, Mama! Ha ha ha!”, just like that).
Now that the sweet routine is gone, I realize how much I enjoyed it governing our lives since somewhere in last May—a routine prepping me for September’s heavyweight-Fallness: Deadlines, preschool requirements, the challenges of finding time to write/revise/work (routine within the routine) without feeling as if I am shortchanging anyone I live with (pets included).
Have I found all the answers to organizing my busy-ness? No. Of course not. However…
I used to be a gypsy type. I lived all over Los Angeles, including: E C H O P A R K (during-early-city-attempts-at-EP-gentrification). I did anti-routine things, like eat salad at 3:00 a.m. while dancing to Ray Of Light while hard-boiling eggs—in my apartment—alone—hard copies of my poems like kicked leaves on the living room floor (yeah, I was a radical). Routine was not my forte.
Oh, how I love it now, though (perhaps almost as much as my son loves it), the routine idiosyncrasies, endearments and habits conducted every single day by my preschooler, bits that never cease to thrill me, even as I find myself once again reminding him to stop, focus, eat. (Remember that moment in Lord Of The Rings when the ghosts—those eternal rebels—shut-up and follow through? The ghosts have shut up. I’m following through.)
There’s the timer. 10:00p.m. Time to make a salad.
And gather up my leaves.
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