By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
I actually went to bed last night with a mission. I knew my plans for the next day—everything I had to accomplish—and I nestled into bed with a checklist in my head and a neat outline of how it would all go. I was going to be productive, get done what I needed to, and maybe even sneak in a bit of free time to play something frivolous with my daughter or, if I were especially fortunate, carve out a moment for myself.
Now, granted, that “free time” might amount to nothing more than a peaceful shower—but I resolved not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I went to bed with all these agendas lined up. Looking back, it’s a tad amusing. I very clearly forgot about this thing called life—and that it couldn’t possibly care less about my plans.
I didn’t even make it through the night uninterrupted.
As usual, I had to get up and help my daughter back to sleep. I’m not sure what is afoot in her circadian rhythm lately, but nearly every night, in the wee hours, I hear the drowsy call of “Maaaama” drifting down the hall. Begrudgingly, I get up and go to her.
She often doesn’t even say anything—just assumes a comfortable position with her back to me. I’ve done this long enough to know exactly what it means: she wants me to scratch her back until she drifts off again. The thing is, she’s barely awake, and I’m quite certain it would take about a quarter teaspoon of effort for her to fall back asleep on her own. But I have been summoned, and I have already crossed the house, so each time I wearily settle in behind her and do my duty.
Yes, I know. She’s spoiled.
It rarely takes more than a minute before she’s sound asleep again. I carefully stop, rearrange her covers, and slip off the bed with as little movement as possible.
But rest is not waiting for me on the other side of her door.
Because, as per usual, sitting in the hallway is my cat—who is quite certain he requires at least half his breakfast immediately. Waiting until sunrise is, apparently, out of the question.
Too tired to argue, I give him half a scoop.
This keeps him satisfied—until morning, when I attempt to sleep in. At that point, he returns to inform me, quite insistently, that the second half of his breakfast must now be administered or he will surely perish.
I oblige. And just like that, I’m up.
Determined, I decide to begin accomplishing my goals.
I’ve barely made it out of bed—contacts in so I can see beyond three feet—when my daughter announces that she is ready to get up. On weekends, I make her muffins, so whatever plans I had can wait. I head to the kitchen, preheat the oven, and start mixing batter.
I’m just reaching for the milk when my husband, who is working on a building project, wanders in and asks if I can make him a scrambled egg sandwich “when I get a chance.” I tell him I can, and once the muffins are in the oven, I whip one up and take it outside to where he and my dad are working.
I linger for a moment—until the oven timer calls me back inside.
Muffins out. Dishes to wash. Kitchen to straighten.
As I wipe my hands on the towel, I remember the laundry. I start one load, then decide it’s a good day to wash all the towels as well. Another pile is gathered, waiting its turn.
At this point, I realize I haven’t made my coffee.
This is promptly remedied, and I finally sit down.
But not for long. The first load needs to be moved to the dryer, the second started. I tend to that, and at last, I feel I’ve reached a decent stopping point—the moment I’ve been working toward all along.
I grab my laptop.
The task: to write.
This is taken as a very clear invitation by my dog, who immediately decides that if I am sitting, she must be in my lap—despite the obvious lack of space. She flings herself at me, presses her cheek against my mouth (presumably to prevent protest), and then burrows under the blanket.
After some maneuvering, I manage to reclaim partial use of my arms.
Finally, I can write.
But, of course—
my coffee needs refilling.
The best laid plans…
Prose and Possibilities 