Lofty thoughts. That's what I call the grand ideas that pop into my head, or the elaborate plans I make, as I am driving the car the 25 minutes from Trader Joe's back home, usually with a latte/mocha/chai (my little reward to myself for getting through the grocery shopping which has never been a particularly favorite task) in the cup holder, The Wiggles or Raffi in the CD player, and Andrew happily playing with a toy in his car seat.
Lofty thoughts. Because they almost never come to fruition. Take last Monday's, for example. In my mind, I completely emptied the fridge, removed and washed all the shelves and drawers, and washed down the inside walls. Like that is really going to happen anytime soon. Cue hysterical laughing.
Lofty thoughts. I may be flawed in my thinking, but it seems to me that mothers of previous generations (and maybe even mothers of today) were able to complete these kinds of domestic projects during a morning or an afternoon. But I don't know how. I have a hard time getting the dishes done.
Lofty thoughts. I think them, then reluctantly let them go as I pull into the driveway. After all, some day, when the kids are more independent, or at school (assuming I haven't gone back to work, which is a lot to assume, though I have had lots of lofty thoughts involving creative ways to make money again someday!), I will have a whole bunch of projects all planned out, filed away in my brain, ready to be accessed and acted upon. Cue more hysterical laughing.
Lofty thoughts. Oh, I will get to them. I will get to them all in due time. What I have to keep in mind, as I pick up Andrew from his car seat and he cuddles against me for the walk to the front door, is that he is only going to be two-years-old, and Valerie is only going to be five-nearly-six, just this once. My time is better spent with them. The fridge, the dusty and cluttered surfaces, the numerous rat-packed closets--they will still be there. (Quietly driving me bonkers.)