Thursday, 10 February 2011
Busy Doing Nothing
If you come round to my house and peek through my window you'll probably see me sitting on the floor.
My baby boy will be utterly engrossed in his toys and I'll be staring silently into space whilst he plays obliviously around me.
I won't be cleaning the grimy windows or painting the walls, I won't be cooking a nutritious meal for my family or reading a good book, and I won't be soothing my soul by writing or keeping my hands busy with knitting.
Because the second I get up to do any of these things my contented little babe will fret and cry and then scream until I rejoin him on the floor.
So if you come round to my house and peek through my window, you'll see me busy doing nothing.
I'll be gazing out of the dirty windows that I'll never have the chance to clean, dreaming up stories that I'll never have the chance to write, planning elaborate meals that I'll never have the chance to cook and sitting on twitchy fingers that will never have the chance to knit.
And I'll be wondering, for about the two hundredth time that day, whether every other mother in the world is quietly doing the same thing.