Post solo-parenting last week when three boys had the tummy bug and one energetic preschool girl didn’t, I am pretty kazausted, to quote one of my kids way-back-when.
I’m just taking this moment to note we are often seem to take modern life like interval training—speed up, slow down—all in the service of somehow moving faster, ultimately.
Yesterday, the preschool girl didn’t have school (staff development day). Her papa took her to his office and then into town for the morning. Quoting the dear husband after he described their many small adventures, mainly of the greeting friends variety: “I’d forgotten just how pleasant it is to take a preschooler into town.”
My turn came next. We walked to the farmers’ market. A young woman pointed out a bumblebee on a flower when I was photographing the flowers from the other side of the bouquet. We ran into friends.
Today at the end of yoga class I fell into such a deep, dreamy rest I came to certain it was six-thirty tomorrow morning.
I’m going to contemplate the notion that I don’t need to try to move so fast. It seems like I’m just a little bit too tired.
My best idea is a new signature on my email that reads: If this is a request for anything, please accept my apologies up front. I’m trying to slow down a bit and I can’t help you right now. Do I dare?
