Focus

Distraction, distraction, distraction. Perhaps it is good, though. How much can you dwell on things when you're perpetually sidetracked?

This past weekend, a mom’s night out (and I do mean OUT) and my darling little girls distracted me extremely well as I rebounded from a rather upsetting work-related call.

Now, the Ashley of years ago would’ve cried and shouted “It’s Not Fair!” after that call, but in my efforts to differentiate myself from Millennials, I sucked it up and shed nary a tear. (It helped that my boss called me afterward and instructed me to log off and consume wine. And I did.)

I mean, I obsessed some, and of course I lost sleep, but children and their constant needs are rather handy for forgetting about the crappy parts of earning a paycheck.

So, distraction is good. But I feel like I have a thousand balls in the air. None of them are absolutely CRUCIAL, except for the kids. (And let’s face it—there’s some wiggle room there. They will survive not brushing their teeth for one night.)

(Oh, stop judging. They totally brushed their teeth tonight. THAT WAS JUST AN EXAMPLE.)

I guess it’s that constantly torn feeling. If I’m working on X, I feel like I should be spending time on Y. If I pay attention to Y, well, what about Z?

Do you ever feel like this? Like your brain is in a billion different places at once? I mean, within a fifteen-minute period yesterday morning, between dropping Lorelei off at preschool and logging on to work, I RSVP’d to two birthday parties, made a hair appointment, rescheduled the date we host fellowship hour at church (traveling to Reno, folks), gave the church secretary a heads-up that I’ve decided to revamp the entire volunteer schedule, analyzed a ballet I’d never seen via email with an L.A.-based friend, reassured our Ethan Allen sales rep that I did not begrudge her car accident delaying her figuring out pricing window treatments we probably can’t afford and that we’re just glad she’s okay, and . . . by 9:30, I logged on and started working through a weekend’s worth of email.

And then the dog came over and pointedly pointed out that she needed to pee.

I compartmentalize my life so I can focus on one thing at a time. Frankly, I think multitasking is total crap. For starters, the nature of my work does not lend itself to multitasking. Unless it’s a webinar (ugh, WEBINARS), what I’m doing requires complete attention.

When I’m with a kid, she most likely requires complete attention. The only way out of this is TV. And apparently good parents (read: mothers) are supposed to limit this horrible concept called SCREEN TIME. More to the point, multitasking is proven to be crap because when I try to mix work and kids, Mommy gets crazy cranky. “Find the tape yourself, I’m trying to vet this freelancer!” I shout to my unsuspecting kindergartener.

Yes. Working mums really are that rotten. Tell your friends and loudly tsk-tsk.

But don’t worry. My no-longer-working-mum-because-she’s-retired is coming in July and will be the extra wife around here that I so desperately need. 

I envy Chris sometimes. Wake up, go to work, WORK WITH NO INTERRUPTION, come home, run, throw something on the grill, evening routine.

Okay, there’s other stuff, and ain’t nobody around here enjoying the evening routine, but . . . I can’t shake the feeling that he is allowed to actually, like, focus.

And other times I think, ugh, that would suck. Doing Chris’s commute EVERY DAY? And then Lorelei throws a morning tantrum and I think:

I could totally do that commute every day.

What’s my point in this blog post? I’m going to promote my own blog post as a loverly marriage of form and content—and unfocused stream of consciousness—oooh! Squirrel! I need to clear the area around the sink before the cleaners come tomorrow I wonder if the yellow nail polish on my toes was mistake I mean it doesn’t LOOK like nail fungus but still yikes I need to book Emma’s stay at the doggy vacation farm for when we’re away and I need to go to Target and OH SHIT WE HAVE TO SEND FATHER’S DAY CARDS uh oh, my glass is empty it’s not too late for a second cocktail no not at all.

Hi, I’m Ashley. I’m a typically focused Type A who currently lacks focus and is going bananas because of it. My mind is on a thousand different things. Because it has to be.

It’s time to move on to books. Clearly.

In an attempt to read more picture books to Lorelei and not have her literary blossoming depend on the Ramona bandwagon, we had a rousing reading of Those Darn Squirrels! tonight. I encouraged the girls to raise their fists and shout like cranky old men. They loved it.

Charlotte continues onward with Ramona Quimby, Age 8.

Me, I’m reading fun fluff, mostly. I’m inching forward in Libba Bray’s The Diviners (but it’s HUGE, so don’t judge my lack of progress). For a guilty-indulgence read, I’m reading the fifth Royal Spyness mystery, Naughty in Nice, which takes place (still in the thirties) in the French Riveria. Escapist, witty, British fun.

Okay. Honestly? I have a second guilty-indulgence read, Helen Fielding’s Mad About the Boy, which is the third Bridget Jones book.

Oh, holy crap, have people lost their marbles over this book. Mark is dead! Mark is dead! This book clearly must suck.

Except that it doesn't.

Well, duh. Bridget Jones MUST be single to be the Bridget Jones we all know and sort of love but also roll our eyes at. And if Mark really was Mr. Right, then he must be dead for Bridget to date again.

Sorry, folks. That’s the way it must be.

So, Bridget going on AND ON about her lack of Twitter followers smacks of “this book is so up to date—look! Modern social media!” and sheer page filler, there is something so endearing about Bridget as an effed-up MOTHER, battling kids' nits and all-night pukefests and whatnot.

Is this great literature? No. Have I honk-laughed out loud while reading it? I’m only slightly embarrassed to say YES.

 Here's hoping for a more focused Wednesday, y'all.