Forty Percent

I’ve been stuck. Call it blocked or whatever, I’ve been in what I’ve decided is 40% mode. I’m not quite a disaster, but not nearly pleased with myself. I hate to whine, but circumstance started it. The dishwasher crashed, then the television, then the master bath toliet–you get the drift. The money pit we’re living in is collapsing around us. As if that isn’t enough, Coco needs eye-surgery, and we’re going to do battle with our health insurance company over an out-of-network surgeon. Stress.

I quit doing anything, but the minimum. I’ve been writing. Not as much as I want to be writing, but I’ve been writing. I’ve done the laundry, and Bacon has become the de facto dishwasher, bribing the girls with new DVDs and promises of sugarplums. I’ve cooked and done the necessary mom stuff, but whatever is too difficult–okay–slightly difficult–has been on hold while I melt into obstinate rebellion.

Yesterday, I said, “Enough.” I cleared out the stack of freebee magazines, stockpiled for character collages. I rearranged furniture and cleaned my office. I came up with a new work schedule, planned the menu, and shopped for groceries. I got out the pedometer and walked 12,000 steps. Oh, and I cleaned out the flower beds. All in a day’s work.

Today, I gasped, “Not again?” Yes, again. It’s always harder to keep it up the second day. So, I’ve vowed to try for 50% today–baby steps–working my way to 100.

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