So this morning, starting at 6a, I began to work. Not the “go to my office, track my hours, get paid, be overseen by a boss” kind of work. Instead, the intricate, daily pattern of life described as work or with described as life.
So many parents do this on the daily. Put away the drying dishes. Wake up your sleepyheads. Head to Little League or Art Class, or if you live in NYC, perhaps Parkour or 1 of the set of 6 weekly classes of an aspiring gymnast or soccer player. Or even if you’re just hanging in your dirty bathrobe (cue me), while your kid (s) watch Saturday morning cartoons (does this still exist or do all the kids watch loud, brash little imps on the Disney Channel overspeak every line with emphasis?), you’re making it work,, flipping pancakes, getting yourself dressed, and simply, but not so simply, making yourself available to your little one.
I’m not like this this morning. I’ve decided to be a childless 32 year old, with aspirations to keep my hours free to work on other others + be selfish for whatever hours in the day I intend.
You parents humble me.
However, I try to not to allow perspiration, inspiration, go to waste. No no no. This morning began with a refreshed 7.4 hours of sleep and tumbled into my regulatory flare of putting together oatmeal and fresh cut fruit for my husband meal, because although I’m abstaining from eating grains in the morning at the moment, my happy little bear needs his sustenance because he’s one of those enviably always lean, may forget to eat he is so engrossed in whatever he is creating or fixing, muscled sorts that lifts his shirt up and you find abs.After that the day banks into a good morning chat when he wakes and I scoop out the meat of a large papaya into my gut-hole, before settling in with a full, overly satisfied belly sloshing with fructose into a recline on one of post modernist chairs with which our landlord/friend outfitted his kitchen table.
I dial into the modem (no I don’t) and swoop into the intersphere tunnels you witness entering in 90s movies as you are sucked into the net.
Smoop. Slurp. I’m in!
Emails. Emails. Emails.
With emails trigger unfounded minor anxieties because I always touch these during “non-work hours.” Fun. A fax number purportedly doesn’t work for an important lease my employer is expecting. The washer-dryer people ruin the second attempt at fixing the door, despite miraculously being the only authorized contractor for repairs of this specific brand of machine. Enough. Too laborious for you leisure reader to be walked through it all.
A highlight lies in reading and having the motivation to edit the Georgia Tech essay my admissions consulting student has written, who is not only way ahead of the curve in having started to write her college essays in June!, but also in her severe maturity and writing ability, maybe a product of good genes and a need for hardiness living with a single mother who has intentionally, and with love, inculcated her to be an independent, thoughtful sort.I love reading her writing. I want her to go to whatever college she would like, and we’re working together to get her there.
She will surprise herself with what she’s capable of because as smart as she is, she’s also humble and not overwhelmed with the allure of distractions provided in the lives of wealthier children. Her mother cannot afford to hire me. I cannot afford to charge them a dime, and I will probably do her one better over all my paying students because I have a real regard for her strides.
Work happily develops into planning for a winter escape to complete relief work in Puerto Rico, as I try to muster as much time as I can to take off from work, by overlapping my trip with that of my employers. I’m excited to be able to support them, but also to be able to support my dreams by orchestrating the dates of my trip just so and praying my presentation of such a week and a half trip is ok by them if it is planned not to disrupt their lives.
It’s 9 o’clock. It’s cleaning the apartment, which fortunately is small, and doesn’t entail a lot of work, because our architect is coming over soon, and we are hosting brunch tomorrow for two friends. They all rarely see our apartment, so I can fool them into thinking we always live in such a spic and span environs.Done. Done. Done.
I don’t plan to stay for the architect (husband can meet with him and share my aesthetic) and throw on running clothes and lather my skin with sunblock, but as I mechanically brush my teeth, he arrives and pulls tiles out of his bag that he is eager to show us. God I love our architect. I’ll never say it to him because he’s probably be overwhelmed with the effusion, he is the epitome of cool and collected, but Allan, if you’re reading this, I love you and what you bring to your lives. You are so kind to us and have been in the years we’ve known you, helping us with the first home, designing our, may I say, amazing, draining backyard that our guests love, and which never floods, and would have, if it weren’t for your sage consulting.
Allan is our dream architect, probably because he is our friend. I can’t recommend enough to work with your friend, or at least a friend of a friend, if you can! I wanted to go for a run, so I could manage to put in a few hours of paid work at the office I’m helping to switch between spaces, but all I want to do is watch him zoom around the AutoCAD drawings of our three floors of the proposed, new Bnb.
I return to the topic with which I began to that this work is life because it’s a mix of things that make me tick, where I can see immediate results, and it’s our love child because we’re childless. It’s no more beautiful or holy than your living entity, but I can mostly take breaks when I want while you child endowed cannot. We reap different rewards in our bourderless efforts, but whichever way we have it let’s take a moment to breathe in the we are strong, productive beings that need to self recognize all of the work we do outside of our prescribed work schedule.