Repetitive Motions

It is that bittersweet time when summer draws to a close and the kids pack up their rooms at home before transporting everything back to college.   It does not seem that long ago that I was on campus with my daughter, packing up her freshman year and stuffing it into the back of my car.  Nor does it seem that long since we first transported the better part of Bed, Bath, and Beyond down to her campus before freshman orientation.

I am starting to become very conscious of how many activities of daily life are simply repetitive motions, things that we do and undo, ad infinitum.  Some of the activities are binary:  we make the bed, we mess it up.  Others are more circuitous:  go to the grocery store to buy food, bring it home, unpack the bags and put things away, and then take each item out little by little to create meals until we have to return to the store to buy more food.  This pattern overlays that of a plate, pulled from the cabinet and set on the table only to cover it with food.  It is bussed to the sink, stuffed in the dishwasher, and replaced--clean--in the cabinet.  The next meal, its lifecycle starts anew.

By contrast, I have always thought of myself much like a shark—a creature that must keep moving or die.  I have a constitutional need to move forward.   This was manifested in my youth as creative energy.  On any given day I could be found painting pictures, playing the piano, moving furniture, planting seeds, sewing new clothes, doing needlepoint.  I was never particularly fussy about the activity as long as I was using my hands to make something.  I hated folding laundry, making the same tired dinner salad night after night, and setting the table.  Even today these activities bring me down.  They represented nothing more than domestic entropy.  They do not move me forward; on the contrary, they require full effort just to stay in place.

Even as my education gave way to a professional life, I stayed on the “making” rather than “doing” side of things.  I loved the intellectual process of studying law and business, for example, but chose otherwise, fearing a life caught up in completing the same transactions again and again.  Even in corporate life, I turned down opportunities in line management, preferring the problem solving that comes with strategic staff positions.  As soon as I did something once I lost interest.   I had to keep swimming.

This personality flaw may describe my distaste for working out in a gym, my allergy to housework, and my refusal to get a dog (sorry kids).   Although I will not get up to make my husband breakfast, I will happily throw an elaborate party for his department or volunteer to cook Thanksgiving dinner.  

And so the end of summer means a mournful end to my covert plan exploiting those who find shelter in my home.  Make no mistake; I welcome the return of my kids.  I love the way they fill the house with laughter, request that I cook their favorite foods in a way that no restaurant or meal service can, and marvel over the home improvements I have made in their absence.  On the other hand, the kids are also happy to go grocery shopping, pick up the dry cleaning, or fill the car with gas--anything in exchange for the luxury of driving again.  Gladly I turn over my keys to either of my offspring if they will save me an umpteenth trip to market, happily tucking a twenty in their pocket when the bags are unloaded and the food is put away before I have to ask.

I'm sure gonna miss those kids.