I wish I’d had the foresight to write a letter to myself before I had kids. I have some baby induced amnesia about what a day was like before the ever-urgent onslaught of parenting. Most days now are an overlapping patchwork of transportation, supplies, provisioning, and counseling, and it’s hard to imagine it ever being otherwise.
“Mary, this is Mary. Remember me? I’m the one that used to do laundry once a week, whether I had a full load or not. The one who didn’t mind having the same meal a couple of days in a row, who saw just about every movie at the theater, who spent hours of focussed time doing calligraphy in the spare room, music flowing through the house. I was also the one who treated grocery shopping as a quick excursion and thought nothing of having friends over at the drop of a hat.
Okay, enough introductions. I just wanted to tell you all about my day today. I got up a little later than I wanted to, because I had set the coffee maker for 10 and I didn’t peel my eyes open until 11. That’s okay, though, because it’s Saturday and I didn’t have anything planned until later. Thought I might spend a few hours with my book and coffee, and then dead-head the roses by the front porch. A leisurely shower, and I’ll be all ready to hit the shops well before the movie…”
It’s not only the years that separate me from that Mary, but the days.