the schedule.

As a child, I always wanted to know what to expect.

When are we going? How long are we going to be there?


Can I bring my book?


My family teased me about this quirky need for a stone-laid schedule, and I always retaliated with a scowl. I never appreciated criticism in any form, but I didn't say I needed a schedule, okay? Just tell me what's going on!

I still like to be in the loop. It bugs me when John goes downstairs to shower and doesn't return for 45 minutes. What were you doing down there, anyway?

He laughs about forgetting to submit his itinerary in advance.


I, of course, scowl.


I like structure. I like order. Especially, I like to know what to expect.

I'm in charge of things around here during the day, so rather than melt into a puddle all over the house, I'm slowly constructing a schedule for myself – a lattice to lay over my week.

Monday is Baking Day. Up to my armpit in flour and dishes, I arrive at day's end done but accomplished. Tuesday night is yoga night. My night, goodbye. Early mornings I work, evenings exist for yoga and writing and reading and couple time. I do dishes after lunch, laundry on Sundays unless we're traveling. Tuesday is Craft Day. I still need to dedicate a Cleaning Day but my soul recoils. The kids want a Library Day, too, so maybe Thursdays? Between the cracks I shower and think when I can.

Many monkey wrenches upset my good intentions: sickness, laziness, kids waking early or resisting bedtime, tantrums, unexpected plans. But I'm flexible – this is not a schedule set in stone, but a trellis to climb when I can.

I'm finding a sunny, warm view up here. And I think I can expect more flowers from a climbing clematis than from shaded ground cover…Well, that's a metaphor I would expand, but I must knead the dough. Oh wait, Ruthie is up from her nap. And Eliza is throwing a fit. And Claire wants a snack. And the phone is ringing. And the dog needs to go out…