All that glitters gets pretty old.

Most of the time that I'm supposed to be doing something on my computer (which, honestly, is most of the time), I find myself sucked into doing things totally unrelated to my project/mission/goal. I'm on my way to a specific place to get specific information, and--WHOA! What was that!?—next thing I know, I'm off-topic. As with most things, I can say the same is true of life. Any time I have my mind set on achieving something or reaching the next level, I get distracted. Something sparkles in the peripheral and I forget what I was doing.

 

Last week, I spent an inordinate amount of time devoted to projects that aren't exactly the kind of projects I'm interested in. I have the option at any time to do or refuse these side-jobs. Sometimes it's OK, and I'll go ahead and take some on to keep myself busy. Other times, I am already busy and really don't have the time or energy to focus on them, but (because of my accommodating ways) I'm talked into doing something I'd rather not do.  

 

These projects are Sparkly Things; they offer little satisfaction and are generally located inside a trap. (Works on raccoons all the time.) I'm saddened to admit that a slew of Sparkly Things kept me from this blog last week, an error I hadn't even realized until this morning. Not cool, Adrienne. Not cool.

 

That oversight was my breaking point. I like this blog. I like my goals.. I like the things I'm trying to invest my time in, and I feel that my constant availability to others has made me too scatterbrained and unfocused to be a proper role model for my daughter. She needs to see that I'm taking control of my life and future (and hers, by extension) instead of caving to others' demands. I'm tired of putting my plans on pause to help someone else fulfill their goals. My time may be for sale, but not all of it.

So I'm officially boycotting Sparkly Things. As soon as I complete the remaining pieces of the last project I accepted, that's all, folks. And, just like that, I'm back on course, on topic, in the game, on the right path, what-have-you. With my blinders on, of course.

The unbearable lightness of being (lazy)

Today, as I sit in my house that is (remarkably, impossibly, somebody-pinch-me) empty of people and full of quiet, I wonder how I'm going to get any work done. I work from home about half the week. Usually, it isn't this peaceful; four-year-olds are noisy creatures, husbands sometimes have interesting things to say, the TV is usually on, and people always want to call me. As it turns out, I don't watch TV unless it's set to record on my DVR. And my phone? Well, she left me for greener pastures. Au revoir, Little Red Samsung. I suspect you're hiding in the cushions of the sofa, but somehow I can't prove it. I will find you.

 

So my house is very quiet, and I'm enjoying it. In fact, the only noise is the AC and these gloating words tapping off the keyboard. The truth is, it's so quiet and lovely here today that I don't want to work. Motivation can be, uh, an issue. I'm something of a procrastinator, if you can believe that, and sometimes things are left undone. Not because I don't think they're worth doing (usually), but because I'm sort of lazy and would rather just do something more entertaining. Meaning: I'm human and don't want to give up the few precious hours of quiet time I'll have for who knows how long to do something that's maybe less than fun.

 

On the other hand, I'm also a person who feels compelled to do everything well. Obviously, procrastination and perfectionism do not make good bedfellows. Who knew the two could exist within the same person? This is the sole source of 89% of my problems; the other 11% are divided unevenly among drama from my extended family and work, the crazy woman across the street, heartburn, and a small addiction to social media--which I am working on breaking (but not too hard).  This is why I'm crazy.

 

How does one rectify such a divide within herself? The only solution is to do all of my work as quickly and efficiently as possible, then hope there's time for a shower, some coffee, and a book before the house fills back up. In fact, I'm going to go do that right now. After I check my Facebook page.

A Letter to my Daughter

Happy Birthday, Kiddo.

Parents like to say that the time has just slipped by, that they can't believe the kid they see is the same baby they brought home from the hospital, that it all seems like only yesterday. Well, I don't like using clichés, and I have to tell you that sometimes finding the right words without using those old adages isn't easy. The last four years have made it even harder, it seems.

I hope you'll forgive me someday for getting all squishy over you on the Internet. It's just that when I found out I was pregnant, I was mostly terrified. I thought, "[BLEEP]! Double [BLEEP]! What if I do everything wrong, like, all the time?" (Mostly I have, if anyone ever asks.) Since then, the terror has almost faded--not entirely, though, because you are one reckless little cannonball of energy, Girl. You're a mess, and I love it. When you destroy things intentionally, never eat dinner, beg to wear the same dress every day for a week, and freak out in the grocery store, I love you.

Even when you're the Monster Who Would Not Sleep, I love you. Even when you like Daddy more, I love you. Even when you call me a pickle-head (then laugh like you've never said it before), I love you.  And when you wake up cranky and cry because I'm leaving for work, I love you even though I still have to go.. Trust me when I tell you I'd rather get back under the covers and watch cartoons with you instead.

Of course, I love you for the good things, too. You're funnier and taller than I expected. You're smarter and more beautiful than I'd imagined. You play harder and run faster and climb higher and dance with more abandon than I ever have. You find joy in the oddest places, always hug me back (even when you're mad), and remind me every day that I need to take a break and enjoy my time with you. By sight you recognize words like no, stop, hot, bug and Superman. You might be the happiest person I ever met, and that means your Daddy and I are tied for second.

None of the ridiculous, dangerous, heart-breaking things you do can make me love you less. I know, I know. I tried to skip that cliché and I couldn't. There's a reason phrases are overused--sometimes there's no other way to say it right. Go ahead and plot your revenge on me for telling the whole world that you run around in your underwear, chasing the cat through the kitchen and quoting lines from The Land Before Time. If you don't mind, though, I have to go. Today I'm going to fill out your enrollment forms for Pre-K, then cry in the car for an hour. I'll be home in time for our regularly scheduled mayhem.

Love,
Mommy

Fireworks--a Cautionary Tale

While you're out this weekend getting sunburned and eating too many hot dogs, please remember that this holiday is a celebration of our country's victory over oppression, the single most important day in our history--the birthday of the place we all call home. Take a moment to reflect on how amazing it is to be free in a world where so many people are not, and how fortunate we are that someone came here before us to give us the rights to live, worship, disagree, and raise our children and voices in the ways we deem appropriate. Our country, while imperfect, is a remarkable place to live. I'll give you a moment if you'd like.

When you're done reflecting (or just taking a little break), let me tell you about a little thing called "pyrophobia". That's the fear of fire, for those not fluent in Latin (thank goodness for Google). As a person who is clumsy and phobic by nature, Independence Day has been perilous for me. When I was nine, I kicked over a fountain—the type that spews sparks and colored bursts of fire for, oh, I don't know, thirty minutes or so—that had been burning for an eternity and instead of burning itself out after all the sparkly ammo was gone, it simply burst into flame and stayed that way. I had some crazy idea that kicking it into the moat of my sandcastle (dirt/rock castle, really) would be the best way to extinguish it. My foot caught on fire, and I still have a small, shiny scar just above my two littlest piggies. When I was even younger than that, maybe five, a wall in the living room of our house went up in flames after a Christmas display went terribly wrong. Add those two events to the time I caught a towel on fire while making dinner, and you have a full-blown pyrophobe. So, my second request is that this weekend you exercise caution when handling fireworks, even if you have no sympathy for my poor oft-burned extremities.

Lastly, have a great weekend. Enjoy your time away from work, doing whatever it is that you do when you aren't there. Delight in eating those hot dogs, even if you won't admit that you like them. Have a good time with your family and/or friends, be safe, use sunscreen even more often than you think is too often, and I'll see you next week (possibly minus a digit or two).