What I give to you is just what I'm going through

Tuesday. Thank goodness. I'd become even more unbearable than usual. I'm the worst teenager in the house. A solid week of forced togetherness had worn The Goldens down to the nubs. By last night, I resorted to threatening nudity to chase Nathan from the bedroom.

"Time for you to clear out. I want to change into my pajamas."
"Hang on, I'm watching this. Mama, you love World War II in Color." This is true, but I saw this for the diversion it was.
"5:30 is going to come very quickly tomorrow morning. I need to get some sleep."
"Your laptop is still on, I don't believe you." I hate the back talk. I hate that he was right even more.
"Nate, go now. I want some alone time with Dad."
"Oh, gawd. I'm staying.You guys don't need alone time." He made air quotes with his fingers.
"You better scram. I'm taking off my pants." I did, too.
He covered his eyes.
"Now I'm going to take off this bra."
"Mom, no!"
"And I'm going to throw it at you. It'll probably burn your skin." I reached behind me to unhook my bra.
"I'm going."
"You can throw that bra here." MathMan is never far from the action when breasts are involved.

So they finally got out of the house today and I stood at the kitchen counter sipping coffee and listening to the quiet house. All around me chores begged for attention. Cat hair fringing the edge of something sticky on the kitchen floor tried to convince me to mop. Dirty clothes already sorted whispered Come on, baby to me when I passed by the laundry room door. My ever-trusty vacuum stood in the corner of the dining room. I swear it winked at me when I stopped in there to get something from the file cabinet. Fresh.

Resist, I told myself.
I'll just wash up these dishes. It'll only take a moment.
No! Resist! Walk away! Go work. Go workout. Go have a shower. Eat something! Be that person you said you wanted to be.

I hate when I make declarative statements to MathMan when my conscience is listening. Caught in the middle of whining about interruptions yesterday (and probably every day since January 1) I corrected myself by saying that I wanted to be that person who got up, got her family out the door, worked out, had breakfast, a shower and got busy writing. No internet until after 1pm when the job search would take priority each day.  Disciplined, focused, driven. That's who I want to be.

Time to stop blaming the kids and MathMan for my inability to finish anything.

I'll just do these dishes, then I'll work out, have some breakfast, a shower and then I'll be ready to work. Except why does the water pressure in this sink seem weak? Maybe I should take the aerator off and check it. Will pliers get it off? I'll get the pliers. On my way, I'll toss in a load of laundry.

I left the kitchen and fetched the pliers then went downstairs to the laundry room. Everything was going so smoothly. I'd get it all done and have time to work.While I wrestled with the pliers and the aerator, I talked to myself some more.Why do I treat writing like dessert? It's the best part of my day, but I save it for last, when I'm tired, distracted and likely to be interrupted.

I have a girlfriend who has always been thin despite her raging sweet tooth. She eats dessert first whenever she feels like it. Which is often.

I won't beat you silly with that epiphany. I put the pliers back and transformed into that person I said I wanted to be. I pulled out the manuscript that I've been revising since 1946 and didn't stop working until two hours later when I stopped to feed the cats who were using the youngest among them as a battering ram against my bedroom door, I think. She appeared dazed when I opened the door.

"Okay, guys. Let's go," I said to the cats as we moved en masse toward the kitchen where I didn't notice the spots on the floor, the wonky faucet or the dishes in the drainer.