Who me?

The to-do list is long. Change sheets. Put away laundry. Do bills. Balance checking account. Go groceries. Read report from work. E-mail arts committee I volunteered to chair as a community service. Clean Emily’s room. Scour upstairs bathroom. Weed herb garden. Water window boxes. And there’s fine washables and sewing, plus my sister’s birthday is tomorrow.

It’s July and I just changed into my summer handbag yesterday. I think the Christmas wrapping paper got put away at Easter. At least I don’t have homework anymore because I finally finished graduate school.

It’s a daily dilemma. How am I going to get half of this list accomplished plus find time to exercise?

I’m in the corner in the yoga child pose position holding the white flag. I surrender. I’m not the only one in the family with arms and legs capable of transporting a dirty plate into the dishwasher. Sadly, I am the only one with the ability to see dirt. Everyone else’s vision appears to be too poor to spot dust, fingerprints, and soap scum.

I used to own it all—run myself ragged everyday like a nervous gerbil on a wheel running as fast as I could, not realizing I wasn’t getting anywhere but exhausted and exploited. My husband would have stepped over my limp lifeless body on the floor to reach the remote control.

Now I protect myself. I got selfish. Put myself first. You’ll never guess where I learned how. Just observe.

My husband and children come home, drop their bags in the doorway, leave their coat on a kitchen chair and head right to the TV room where they put their feet up. Not a care in the world. Garbage day? Since when. Dinner time? No way. Out of toilet paper? Not.

As long as I owned it all. They didn’t have to. So I started dropping all the burdens in my arms, one at a time. Laundry. Sweeping. Dishes. Cleaning. With each deposit, I found precious time for me.

My children are 12 and 14. If they were Laura and Mary Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, they would have milked the cows for the butter they were churning by 7AM. My two? They have fought over the one Chi hair straightener in the house, left the milk out, and sent sixteen text messages by 7 AM.

Me? I’ve just finished exercising in the basement, where I had to walk past flip flops, magic markers, and empty soda cans. Thankfully, my vision gets poorer each year. Not like I need bifocals to see the debris.

But in my house, you are responsible for your own wake. I’m not going to drown in your mess. Thankfully, I’m wearing a life preserver. It’s the insight that I am the only one who can take care of me. Unlike housework, no one else can do it. Me is my first responsibility.