Yesterday while I was attempting to cook dinner, I was interrupted eight times in the course of 20 minutes. The baby needed her binkie. Malone wanted to color but then wanted me to help him pick out a page. He needed a snack. He wanted a hug. You get the idea.
Little tiny interruptions by my tiny humans.
And then Malone fell off of his chair. He cried big crocodile tears. I love him more than I love cooking dinner, so the stove went off.
There are some times when it is easy to pick right up where I’ve left off after an interruption. It is much easier when there is a physical task to come back to because I can see right where I’ve left off. Back to folding laundry. Back to cooking dinner.
I’m used to the disruption to my day that comes when you have a house of littles. There isn’t a single task that gets done completely without at least one.
However, there are times when I really have to fight hard to get back on track. And if I’m being completely honest, during those times it feels easier to give up and say forget about it.
I’ve come to this space six times in the last 24 hours and tried to write. Each time I was interrupted and by the time I could get back here, I couldn’t remember what it was I was even going to write about.
I didn’t want to fight to get back here. I wanted to give up for a few days, wait for inspiration to strike and let the word vomit spew forth. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it would be a slippery slope to losing a piece of my identity outside of motherhood.
I am a mother. I am interruptible.
I’m linking this up today with Shell from Things I Can’t say for Pour Your Heart Out.