The Mother Of Procrastinators

Here we are again. 10.15 in the evening and I have about 15 hours of study to fit into the next two days. I swore last time I was going to be more organised when it came to deadlines for assignments. I said it out loud, told G, told my friends. The sweeping statements of an unrealistic optimist; the evangelical never agains, this time, 75 squats and 100 sit ups before breakfast  –  here we are again.

There’s something a little bit special about the combination of being the mother of four children and a major procrastinator, the added je ne sais quoi. I know not what surprises they will offer while I’m in my major panic of a 1500 word in-depth analysis by Friday.

“Hey Mum, can we take Victoria to the dance this Thursday? Remember we still have to get shoes.”

“Hey Mum, did you ring Brianna’s Mum to reply for the party?”

I’m at a loss, I can’t remember seeing the invitation.

“It came while you were away, it’s this Thursday. Oh, and can we take Megan?”

“That’s the same night as your sister’s dance?”

“It’s fine Mum, you have an hour in between the two” the first traveller offers as a consolation.

I agree, of course, because I have been in France for 4 days without them. They have lived through my neglect. While I ate cheese, drank wine, and walked with mountains in the distance and a little voice behind my right ear – you should be studying at home with your children. The voice would have been annoying if it were not drowned out by another on the left, forget about it, drink more wine, eat cheese, you only live once, do it do it do it.

“Did you find me a yankees t-shirt in France?” says the third traveller.

“No, but I am so sure someone we know must have one? I mean, who was Babe Ruth last year for Notables Day?”

I look in the rear view mirror to a car full of blank faces.

“If I can’t find one, I’ll make one. Don’t worry. When is it again?”

“Tomorrow”

My face twitches, I try not to outwardly display fear.

I shouldn’t have gone away. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have gone away.

I’d promised sushi for lunch, a leaving bribe. When I come back we’ll all go for sushi. As we order from the menu I hold it high enough to surreptitiously google the yankees uniform. We shop, I spy a grey t-shirt, buy a fat texter, and later as I sit surrounded by books and study notes on visual communication I begin to outline two words. NEW YORK. The neighbour arrives and saves the day with a hat. The third traveller comes downstairs with baseball pants, shoes and socks. I listen to previous lectures via audio pods as I write the outline of a 3, it sits below the RUTH.

“Mum, it’s perfect. This is much better because it’s just like what Babe would have had, the shirts are different now, different to what they were back then.”

“Well, it’s not the pin stripes, but it’s their away game uniform.” In the past hour I have become a Yankees uniform expert. I should be ashamed of myself. Am I really trying to pretend I’d planned it this way?

Over dinner as my mind wanders off, which question to focus, van Gogh or Gestalt, a little voice by my side asks a question about Israel. Did I know? How come? What religion? And why won’t you find Palestine on the map. The atlas comes out, someone is pretending to speak yiddish. Dinner plates are carried to the sink, teeth brushed. Can you lay in my bed with me? I will not return to the books until after their bed time.

And so here we are again. At 10.15. The question, van Gogh or Gestalt. Procrastinate some more.

A blog post.

Here we are again.

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