Come and sit with me, Chris laments.
I never dreamt caregiving would be hard on the butt. Or that it would sometimes result in unusual anxieties.
The kitchen table is not cleared of the breakfast things, the garburetor is full of peels and rinds from this morning’s juice making, and the other half of the sink is full of soaking pots and bowls. This makes me anxious. I like to have everything nice and tidy before I do anything else.
As a child I was taught that work had to be finished before such pleasures as reading, watching TV or playing could be indulged.
So as an adult, I like the dishes done almost before we leave the table. If I get up from eating to make a cup of tea, I will take dishes to put in the sink to soak, or food to put away in the fridge. I might tidy the kitchen or wash the few things in the sink while the water is boiling.
And this housework ethic if you could call it that, absorbs so much of my thinking now because I feel my busyness conflicts with caring for Chris. I know Chris wants me to sit beside him and watch endless hours of TV.
Sitting is hard for me. I like to keep busy. It’s like my body isn’t happy at rest.
I do housework when I can no longer sit. I put in laundry before extensive TV viewing so that I have an excuse to get up and move about; change the loads. Fold the clothes.
I also confess to blogging, journaling, and computer solitaire. Yes, I’m sitting then, too—but sitting and doing.
Chris is resting. He has switched off the television: Not even a “B” western, he says irritably. More like a C minus.
Hopefully, he’s making up some of the sleep he lost last night. The breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries, toast and fresh orange juice should help put him to sleep.
The sun shines in. For now, all is well. Except in my kitchen.