It’s Thursday, and I’m finally sitting down to finish the post I usually start on Monday. I delayed writing yesterday because Nick and I went to Saratoga for a date at the races. I chose a day with my husband over staying home to meet a deadline no one imposed on me but me. I’d like to call that growth, although there is always a chance it was simply very enjoyable procrastination.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This week’s post started with a completely ordinary interruption. On Monday, Emily told me, “We need more honey,” while I was writing. I stopped my thought, acknowledged her, picked up my phone, and added it to the grocery list. Then I almost checked ParentSquare because the notification bubble was sitting there, even though I’d already seen the information in my email. I just wanted the bubble gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By Thursday, I couldn’t remember what I’d been thinking before she mentioned the honey. I originally thought that meant the moment wasn’t worth revisiting, but maybe forgetting is the point. The honey made it safely onto the list. My thought disappeared. The problem wasn’t taking ten seconds to write it down. The problem was that the honey became a doorway. Once I picked up my phone, there was ParentSquare, another notification, something else to check, and suddenly whatever had belonged to me was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Immediate responsiveness feels like part of my programming. I strongly suspect I have ADHD, and perimenopause hasn’t exactly improved my memory. If I don’t write something down when I think of it, I’ll probably be wandering around later knowing I’ve forgotten something but unable to remember what it was. Whether a diagnosis eventually explains that or not, I forget things. What I don’t understand is why forgetting a household need feels like failure, or why making one of my children wait a few minutes makes me feel guilty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some of my need to be prepared probably comes from how unpredictable life felt growing up. I was an Army brat. Moving was normal, and my dad deployed often. When I was a teenager and it was just my mother and me at home, she might decide in the middle of the night that we were going to Tulsa to see my aunt. Apparently some families planned vacations. We occasionally just woke up in one. I learned early that plans could change before anyone asked whether I was ready. Maybe remembering everything, anticipating every need, and keeping the routine moving became my way of making that feel less frightening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I still do it now. If I’m going somewhere in the evening, I make sure Evelyn’s pajamas are laid out, her blinds are closed, and as much of bedtime as possible is handled before I leave. Part of that is being considerate, but part of it is wanting to enjoy myself without worrying that something will be missed. There’s also a part of me that doesn’t trust the evening to go smoothly without my preparation. If it doesn’t, I worry it’ll somehow mean I failed, which is interesting because evenings don’t always go perfectly even when I’m standing right there managing them. You’d think that detail would humble me more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That brings me back to the question I started with this week: Who am I when the plan works and I finally get the time I said I wanted? I have no idea. Ask me what I want to accomplish for the day or weekend and my mind goes blank. I can make wonderful plans, but unless something is a scheduled appointment, I may not follow through if it only involves me. Apparently, I need a list for how to do nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Even my imagined free mornings already have assignments. I’ll get ready, walk Evelyn to school, come home, work out, write, meditate, drink hot coffee, and probably start the dishwasher and laundry because the house will continue having the audacity to exist. I say I want open time, but I picture time filled with things I can point to afterward as proof that I didn’t waste it. I’m not sure I know the difference between using my time and filling it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then there’s the family-time math I keep doing. When everyone is gone or occupied, I tackle the things that would normally take me away from them so I’ll be available when they’re home. Except when they’re home and have free time, they use it however they want. They’re not wandering around asking, “What can I do to spend time with Mom?” So I’ve cleared my schedule and somehow end up available alone. Then, the minute I start something for myself, that’s when everyone wants my attention. Apparently, the fastest way to become the most interesting person in my house is to begin an activity that requires concentration. It’s a vicious cycle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rest isn’t much easier. My body jumps when it settles. When I’m exhausted and fall into a deep sleep, Nick calls me Biggie Smalls because apparently I grunt. My mother used to do it too. I prefer to believe I’m finishing conversations I started earlier in the day. My therapist has challenged me to sit in stillness, but stillness leaves room for feelings I’ve kept moving around. I’m hoping the open mornings will teach me that feeling something deeply doesn’t have to consume the entire day. I know that sounds reasonable. My nervous system hasn’t agreed to the terms yet. Usually, when I finally stop, my body says, “Great, now that I have your attention, we’re going to be sick for a while.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The part I keep returning to is attention. It’s rare that I finish a thought with someone’s complete attention on me. Lately, I’ve noticed myself getting quieter or refusing to repeat what I said. My undivided attention is in high demand, and because I don’t want the people I love to feel unheard or unseen the way I sometimes do, I stop what I’m thinking to give them space. I’m beginning to feel irritated that I offer that consideration so automatically while struggling to ask for it myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My daughters have learned that I’ll give them what they need without asking for much in return. I want to change that, not by becoming unavailable, but by showing them that attention can have boundaries without love disappearing. Maybe I need to practice saying, “Give me five minutes to finish this thought,” and trusting that five minutes isn’t neglect. I don’t want their memories of me to be an angry, overstimulated mother more concerned about dust on the entertainment center than seeing them. I also don’t want them to learn that being a good woman means abandoning every thought the moment someone else speaks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Writing complicates this because it’s always been an outlet for me. It helps me understand what I’m thinking, and this blog has been healing. My first post will be one year old in September. More people are finding these conversations relatable, and I want the writing to earn money eventually. Wanting to be paid for my time doesn’t make the work less meaningful, but I have to decide whether writing counts before a paycheck proves that it does. Otherwise, I’ll turn another thing that helps me find myself into one more measure of whether I was productive enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yesterday may have been a small answer. I went to Saratoga with Nick, and the post, laundry, and notifications waited. I didn’t stop caring about my family because I chose the date, and I didn’t lose my commitment to writing because I finished on Thursday instead of Wednesday. The world didn’t collapse because I was temporarily unavailable. In fact, I had fun. Imagine that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maybe I don’t need a list for how to do nothing. Maybe I need practice doing one thing long enough to finish it, even when the thing I choose is rest, writing, hot coffee, or a day at the races. The honey can wait until I finish a sentence. Someone else can wait five minutes for my attention. An open morning doesn’t have to prove that I earned my place in the family. The honey made the list. The post got written. I spent a day with my husband. Apparently, all three things were allowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If today’s essay felt like someone put words to something you’ve been carrying, I think you’ll find a little more of yourself in The Unguided Woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It’s not a roadmap. It’s an honest conversation about perimenopause, identity, grief, and finding your footing again when life feels unfamiliar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n