Today, the first Monday after the New Year (surely I’m not the only woman in the world with Monday issues), was at first typical of a January Monday. The phone rang around five, waking me from a sound and sorely needed sleep. I have a cold, and it was still dark, and the kids don’t have school today. I could have slept in! There was a wadded pile of used tissues on my nightstand and another remnant rolled into wispy abstract art, twining on the carpet next to the bed. My youngest was nestled on my husband’s pillow (our usual arrangement when my husband is out of town). Frank sounded bummed when I checked in with him on the phone. It’s Monday where he is, too. After some grapefruit and herbal tea and incessant sneezing (and after I said goodbye to my parents, who’d found refuge and a small party here last night at the tail end of their holiday), I faced off with the laundry room, which hasn’t yet recovered from its post-holiday-travel deluge of clothes. And thought, these boots were made for walking.
(The laundry room is also where I hid my dessicated poinsettias—victims of our prolonged holiday absence–from my guests, and from myself). I tucked away remnants of holiday wrappings that were hiding in the corners of my bedroom (where Frank and I wrapped presents before Christmas), and swept up the little crumbs of chocolate that had fallen out of my purses contents when I’d dumped it out yesterday, in some vital, crazed hurry to find something I can hardly remember anymore. Somewhere in there, I finished a sweet/silly novel by P.G. Wodehouse. After breakfast, my children’s friends (mostly cousins) trickled in and were casually and somewhat listlessly at large. The kitchen was perpetually peopled by kids eating cold cereal, or making quesadillas, or concocting grape juice. Seriously. Three of the nine kids made quesadillas for themselves twice each (there’s a math riddle).
But all the while, through the grapefruit and cousins and crumbs and quesadillas, I was thinking about those promises to myself. That I’d spend a little time writing more than emails each day. Focused, creative writing. That I’d clear cluttered spaces in my house and in my life, and make havens of beauty. So I rewrote my home page, found a picture of Nora in my boots, wrote this entry, and…I made my bed. Even though just Nora and I will be sleeping in it again tonight. I curled my hair and put on my glasses (which I almost never wear because I’m vain) and asked Maurya and Patrick and Joseph to proofread my home page. They smiled over it, and they said (admiringly!) that I looked like a smart English teacher in my glasses. Yeah, baby. These boots were made for walking.
