I grew up in a family where sloppiness was shunned, untidy clothing was frowned upon and laziness was damned. To this day, I cringe if I suspect my activities are slothful.
Cue 1977, who was raised in a calm house where tranquility reigned and naps were revered. When we lived in the city and visited for dinner, 1977 sometimes spent an hour of those visits napping. Or reading. Or otherwise not engaging his parents in conversation. His presence was enough.
Now, in my late 30s, I finally realize that things will get done.
Or they won’t.
But pushing through exhaustion isn’t doing my (second trimester) body any favors. I never received my plaque for productivity, though surely I earned it.
These days, when 2010 naps, I nap right along with her. And I feel refreshed. And I feel less beaten down by the person we’re now referring to as 2013. And this manuscript is still plugging along, so everything is fine.
I blog rarely, because I'm writing books. When I do blog, I focus on writing, friendship, family, and books. Because my family's best nicknames are private, I use their birth years for shorthand: