It's a Heartache

Mom said she hoped my blogging was something I could do quickly and get out of the way. The whole idea is very sad. To me, blogging is the most accessible and likely thing that I can savor and enjoy if I ever get around to doing it right. With Mom, it's too often a matter of figuring out how much I can forego. Is there something that makes me happy? Then how little of it can I get by with?

And persuant to my previous post, it turned out the way I had feared it would -- I didn't get a pass on all the time I spent being frustrated and faked out. Mom said I hadn't been productive enough to justify all the time. I just knew that would happen. But all the while, I couldn't find a way to prevent it. I tried. When I thought I had a few minutes to fill before I could enjoy the computer (without the television dominating the room or Mom hovering and wanting to interrupt,) I fed the dogs, cleared away things in the kitchen and mopped some floors. After that, I didn't know how to fill the blocks of time because I could not anticipate how big they would be. I might have done laundry if I could have seen the future. But I really thought from moment to moment that my chance to do my own thing was just around the corner, and that I would miss it if I committed to anything that took two minutes or two brain cells. I got anxious because I could see (again, from moment to moment) that there was no way around the predicament. In the end I was going to get rushed and shushed through the little joy at the end of a challenging day, and then I would be told that I hadn't accomplished very much.