I Can’t Hear You!

Subtitled: Upon waking from a really bad dream and wanting to tell my subconscious to shut up.

And I don’t even let my kids say shut up.

That’s how bad the dream was.

In it, my parents were packing up after a visit. I stopped by our guest room (which is also our office/library/garbage dump) to see how they were doing. Imagine my surprise when I saw that there were stacks of my belongings everywhere: blankets from the linen closet, my little girl’s shoes and clothing, and various souvenirs from long ago. My mom had decided to take these things; she wanted them for her own.

In my dream I was infuriated. An amazing thing, that—how strong one’s emotions can “feel” within the dream world. I was so angry with my mom for taking my stuff! I spoke to her harshly and told to her to just go.

When I woke up, I was still feeling the vestiges of my anger and on top of that I felt guilt. My poor mother! How could I have talked to her like that? And why would she have even wanted all that junk in the first place?

I felt a little interior nudge in response to my musings.

My linen closet is a mess right now. The kids take advantage of its deep wide shelves and comfy bedding to play game after game of “Boxcar Children.” Or, and this is really gross, my sons take advantage of its proximity to their bedroom and leave their dirty laundry there.

“I’ll take care of it when I have time.”

My little girl’s dresser is the same way. She pulls everything out when she gets dressed in the morning, and then come evening, everything gets stuffed backed in.

“I’ll take care of it when I have time.”

And finally, those aforementioned souvenirs. Insert deep, shuddering sigh here. These have long had their collector wondering, “What will people do with these when I die? Will it all make sense to them?” I have boxes & boxes & heaps & stacks of unsorted photographs. I have old newspapers in plastic tubs. I have…well, this is just getting ugly. I’ll stop the description at this time.

Aargh! There’s that four-letter word again! When? When will I have the time?

Did I mention I felt overwhelmed when I went to bed last night? I did not feel that there was enough time in the day to do justice to my many, many obligations. Poor little wife and mother me. I know I am alone in my frustration. Everyone else has been given 25 hours a day and I’ve been slighted.

Time. It’s always a matter of time, isn’t it?

And how we use it.

Here’s the solution. I need to return to my Flylady days of lore: the 15 minutes of decluttering every day, the 5 minutes in your worst room every day, and the very helpful mental refrain of “Your house didn’t get this way in a day and it’s not going to get clean in a day.”

Slow and steady wins the race.

My timer is my friend.

And so’s my mother! : )

PS. I can’t help but notice today’s feast day. St. Anthony the Great sold everything he had in exchange for the asceticism of the desert. Tony, my man! Let’s hang out.