respect the door.

It’s been about a month since a virus has been knocking us back, then back, then back again.

I had just read The Soul of Parenting and loved it.

There is a suggestion on there for parental privacy, a kind of down space that we all need. It’s all well and fancy for the above seven crowd but in the realm of not going to happen for my two and four year olds.

As chief nose wiper and frustration/meepy mumbling sponge alone time or simply not being aurally assaulted time is at a premium. Top dollar. 

The garden is still a frost kill zone and the woods are oozing with black mud eager to reclaim the humanity it believes sprang from it. I can’t even range around the acre.

I have to leave. The only door to be respected is the front one, closing behind me.

I am mindlessly wandering through supermarkets, returning library books, activities of that ilk. 

I am desperate. 

And bummed out. I have been feeling like I must be falling down on the job. My only solace are errands of a dubious necessity. 

There will be the day where I close the door to my bedroom, knitting in hand to eat cookies and watch library DVDs but today ain’t that day. 

I want, we all, want respectful children. It will be our cross to bear in the upcoming years to have a crew of jerks caring for us in our old age. But remember it comes incrementlly slow in these early years, gaining speed with brain development. Rome wasn’t built in a day and taking steps to respect ourselves in a reasonable matter are tiny, metricly tiny, but worth it.  It seems like it takes forever, because it does. Don’t give up on yourself, it is only now that I have a variety of ages I can see the progression. 

If I sometime in the past touch some kind of magic stone outlander and travel forward in time I hope I have a note pinned to myself to read this post to my former self.


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