If getting all of my news from NPR's "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me" is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Lately it seems like I just don't have time for anything other than cleaning the house and, if I'm very lucky, getting some work done. I know I'm not the first person to be driven to the brink of insanity by putting a house on the market in which two small people live lives dedicated to a unique brand of destructive creationism, but at times like this, does it really matter that someone else has done it all before?

The time I used to set aside for blogging, or reading, or even watching TV, (never mind paying attention to what's happening in the outside world) has been usurped by an onslaught of walls to be painted, PTOs to run, fundraisers to organize, meetings, messes to be picked up (for the fifteenth time), more meetings, and a never-ending pile of laundry. Add to that the fact that my partner in crime has been ridiculously busy working at his understaffed non-profit job, and well, time for relaxation becomes not just a luxury I can no longer afford, but a long lost idea that I usually don't even have time to remember.

Yet amid the chaos, I am satisfied. I find a certain rhythm and I settle into it, as if it was all I had been waiting for.

Every now and then I'll be driving, or staring into space, and in those bubbles of stillness that seem like a rare gift (or the glimpse of a migrating bird en route), I see for a minute all of the things I am not doing, all of the things I am missing. But only for a moment and then I'm back, transporting the children to school, or the doctor's office, and mentally catapulting myself onward into an uncertain future.