Escape

This morning, as I leafed through my writing notebook in search of enough blank pages to record an interview, I came across this statement, alone on the paper (but for some kid scribbles):

In moments like these, I plan my escape.
Martin, in his getaway boat

I'm not quite sure what was going on the day I wrote that--an exhale in the midst of an endless grey wintry week, perhaps? Another incident involving children howling, crayons and walls?

As my friend said today after we hauled four children through Walmart, "Some days I just feeling like applying for a new job." Yup. Don't we all, some days, no matter what we're doing.

And. . .speaking of Walmart, I ventured into some unchartered territory today: the men's restroom. Bea split and made a beeline for the restrooms, inexplicably veering around a corner into the land of urinals and big fellas not-fully-clothed. I had no choice but to follow--my first instinct was to close both my eyes, just in case, but I realized in a split second that I could not, so I compromised, closed one eye, and grabbed her by her hot pink hood, sputtering, "Sorry!" at the same time. As I held her around the waist on the way to the car through the dreary parking lot, I laughed out loud. All in all, it was a much finer experience than running after Merry and Elspeth while I was heavily pregnant with Bea--also in Walmart. There's something about that place in particular--I don't go often but when I do, the gods punish me.

Now I've started to chastise myself a bit for feeling momentarily overwhelmed, thinking of all the women who have done much harder jobs than I--most every single one through history, as a matter of fact. My dear Grandma I. fed her family of six before working a night shift, and then she arrived home in time to feed her children breakfast before sending them off to school. She did this for twenty years. And I? Here I am at the computer as Bea sleeps, with a small handful of tasks waiting for me if I feel like doing them. So buck up, me. Stop complaining.

I've got a short story to tackle yet again, written in a slightly different voice than the one I'm accustomed to--for a while I felt like I was wearing clothes too big for me, suspenders that kept falling off my shoulders--but I think it's coming around. Last night I sat down, determined not to be outdone, and plowed through for an hour or so until I finished the first rewrite. And now there's yet another. And another. And another. Which calls for that many, or more, cups of tea. And a cup of tea is a small escape.

Isn't life, escape plans and all, grand?