The noises coming from upstairs

I am trying to write something useful. Again. I have started three different posts. All take too much brain power to bring to a satisfactory (to me) completion. I don’t have a migraine. I ate today. I exercised today. I didn’t yell at my kids at bedtime. I slept relatively well last night. All of this together brings me as close to being in top form as I get these days. But I can’t make myself see the intended posts through.

My problem is perfection.

I have an idea in my mind. An idea that encompasses all that I want to say. About friendship. About money. About contagious diseases. Three posts. They’re all great in my mind. Funny and insightful. Easy to read and in depth. Simple and yet worldly at the same time.
Yeah. Right.
I’m trying too hard. I do that. I anticipate perfection, and I can’t live up to it.

And then there are the noises coming from upstairs. Distracting me. I’m not talking about in my brain. I mean the iconic pitter patter of little feet, delivering my son to the bathroom for his last pee of the day. The low moans of the baby as she nuzzles her sweet cheek into her pillow. The mindless jabber of my older daughter, who is living her life in her head even more than I am these days. And J, reading, the soft rhythm of his voice. The low tones, one room away from E’s, that could lull me right to sleep. Even down here. Sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair. At my desk. With glare-y light from the dining room making me squint. And our neighbor’s dogs’ incessant barking pulling my attention away from the sounds of my family.

I am in the moment right now. And that’s all I can do. Be here. I do have things I want to say and write and talk about with Sarah. But there’s something about bedtime, when I am not the one putting the kids down, that leaves me distant from directed writing. When it’s my night, I hate bedtime. There always is a struggle, an argument. Someone, everyone is just a little too tired for it all to go smoothly. There always are tears. Or yelling. Or both. I am almost always anxious, because I just want it to be over. And then I feel guilty because I just want it to be over. On J’s nights, I feel guilty, too. Guilty for being downstairs, in the (relative) quiet, with no one’s demands but my own. For this small slice of the day. I find myself soaking it in. Trying to store it up. This time. The quiet, and the feeling of quiet.

So I can’t get to that blog post perfection. Not now. Because it’s too much like putting the kids to bed. There’s a struggle. And a deadline. And I’m a little too tired. And I don’t want to feel guilty. So once again, I feel like I am cutting corners, saying not much at all, letting Sarah take the big issues. But it’s more me. The small stuff. It is.

And anyway, sometimes just listening to the noises is perfection enough. And I’m not disappointed. Even if it’s not what I intended.