Evidently I need a great deal of alone time in order to write anything at all. This thought occurred to me last night when, once again, I sat down to write just as someone came upstairs to watch TV. Our family computer is in the center of family life, as per conventional wisdom. This is irritating in the extreme.
In order to write, I need Norah Jones, who is my muse. This is kind of creepy, I know. I love her music, and I never grow tired of her. Which, actually, hints at another one of my idiosyncrasies. There is almost no creativity or spontaneity in my appreciation of pop culture. Do you know that I would rather see a movie I already have seen a hundred times, than to watch something new? I read the same books until they've worn to tatters, ad nauseam. It's just how I am.
There has been almost no alone time in my life lately. Partly this is because I have children still living at home. Children always sense when a parent is about to have a quiet moment, and this is when they swoop in with an overwhelming need for deep and time consuming intimate conversation.
Mostly, I can blame Tim for my constant companionship. Bless him.
Many wives have husbands who run off to lucrative employment for many hours of the week, which contributes to housework productivity, ladies luncheons, and contemplative reflection. This is not my situation. You'll recall that Tim took a sabbatical from working for a number of years, including the first two years of our marriage. This was a glorious age, not unlike an extended honeymoon, only with teenagers. Then he went back to the workforce, a radical alteration in our marital bliss, which I addressed with some trepidation Here. As I so sagely predicted at that time, I grew wider as he energetically grew more streamlined. This continued until the end of November, when he decided to pursue another brief period of sabbatical while perusing the job market....which he is still doing. He's been home full-time ever since. We have lots of fun together. It's a good thing, too. We have lots and lots of Togetherness.
Can I just tell you that none of my girlfriends are able to grasp quite what I am dealing with, here? It's hard to be me. This man of mine does Everything. He cooks, every meal. He shops. He cleans. He answers in the affirmative to any question the children put to him. He makes the bed, does laundry, he does yard work. He does everything better than me. The kids like him way more than me.
I pretty much have no role in life anymore.
I'm an accessory.
I joke, but it's actually really been kind of a crisis of purpose in me. No one even musters up sympathy for me when I complain. So, I can't be a decent housewife, I can't effectively complain, and I'm having real trouble blogging.
It's tough to be me.
During our first couple years of marriage, I really liked having Tim home all the time. "Being pampered" is what I called it. I wrote a little nugget on the topic Here.
In trying to account for the radical difference, the one thing that stands out is that I have claimed this household as my own fiefdom in the years since he first went back to work. Now he has stripped me of my own domain. That's it, I think. Gosh, you wouldn't think I'd have such the devil of a time adapting.
See how I am? Such an ungrateful brat.
I do feel better for writing about it. Thanks for listening.
You won't tell, will you?
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