A very strange thing happened in my life recently. I hesitate to tell you because I’m afraid that you’ll hate me. I hate me a little. Of course if I don’t tell you, this post goes nowhere fast, so…

I have free time.

In fact, I have quite a bit of free time. I’ve found myself with entire afternoons free of obligation and no unfinished to-do list muddying the waters.

It’s strange. Foreign even. The bulk of what I’ve written here at Work It, Mom! over the last few years has been about my never-ending struggle to get more done in less time. In fact, I just wrote two weeks ago about whether or not it was even possible (or necessary) to achieve a sufficient level of productivity! And then, all of a sudden, I was meeting deadlines, zeroing out my inbox, working on craft projects, volunteering at my kids’ school and still having time to wander around a botanical garden by myself.

What happened?
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I’m usually proud to say that I get the temporary nature of life. Like, annoyingly proud.

When the road gets rough, I am the first to wisely counsel everyone that “this, too, shall pass.” I advise my loved ones to meditate so that they can let go of “future thinking” and stop “borrowing pain from tomorrow.” In an interesting turn of events, however, I’ve found that my emphasis on the impermanence of life has actually started to interfere with my ability to fully embrace the present.

That’s what smug enlightenment will get you.
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I am in a constant struggle to squeeze more productivity out of my day. More accurately, I am in a constant struggle to not be angry with or disappointed in myself for not being able to do as much as I think I should. Long time readers here will not be surprised by this - or to know that I have once again decided to try and do something about it - but whenever I mention my attempts to increase productivity, I am met with a bit of push-back from trusted friends who ask, “what’s so great about productivity?”
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I confess that I’d put it off for far too long; I had a feeling the news would not be good once we went. Finally, just a few weeks after moving into our new home, I took both of my kids to the dentist. I got the news I’d been avoiding: my 12-year-old son needs braces.

Hearing the dentist say the words “orthodontist” and “as soon as possible” in the same sentence put a damper on my day. Having the receptionist request more than double what I’d budgeted for the visit (no, we don’t have dental insurance) solidified my bad mood and sent me into a momentary panic.
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