After about two hours of working intensely, I decided to do some errands. Here is what was on my shopping list:
- Plaster of Paris. Little Guy wants to start a business making sidewalk chalk to sell at the playground.
- Masking tape, for the whole-wall marble run Little Guy is building from salvaged toilet paper tubes.
- A birthday present for a 6-year old boy.
- Liquid glycerin. I'd promised the kids a few gallons of bubble liquid, so we could experiment with 3-D shapes with our Zome Tools. (This kit makes an awesome birthday present, though it's hard to find in stores.) I couldn't find liquid glycerin, so I bought suppositories and dissolved them in hot water before mixing in the Dawn and cold water. It worked.
- Grout, for some falling-off bathroom tiles. Again.
- Odds and ends from the drug store for Dancer's upcoming journey to sleepaway camp.
Did I think about all the things I haven't had time to think about? No.
Did I pray about the things I haven't had time to pray about? No.
Did I relax and let the tension pour off of me? No. I sat and listened to my brain, and it sounded for all the world like channel surfing. I'd have half a thought, and then half another one, and half of a third. No one idea stayed put long enough to be pursued. It was the mental equivalent of a game the kids and I play on the subway: Twenty Nonsequiturs. Get me outta here!
Abandoning my precious seat in the air conditioning, I went outside and walked quickly, sticky in the heat. I arrived home to find Dancer already here. I sat down to do some more work, and felt myself pushing away one kind of mental noise after another. But at least I knew it wasn't someone else's fault. It wasn't that the kids were interrupting (though they often do). It wasn't that the phone was ringing (though it often does). I didn't have to go somewhere, or do something, or get more chores done. It was simply my overstimulated brain.
Somehow, I found that rather comforting.