Well, my parents have been here visiting Deb and me since last Thursday. I should find some other verb than “visiting,” though because having my Dad here is like a Christmas morning for the home-owner. Or like rubbing a bottle and getting a contractor-Genie who is granting us not just three wishes but thirty-three. Or one hundred and three. It’s wonderful. My Dad is a retired contractor and he’s very good with whatever you want to do at the house. So, last spring when he and Mom were visiting, he completely remodeled our kitchen. Free labor made the job affordable for us. We still can’t get over how much we love our kitchen now. This trip he’s created and installed a gorgeous floor-to-ceiling bookcase, re-dry-walled our living room and dining room (where a floor heater had been), is preparing to paint the living room and dining room, and has done all manner of helpful stuff.
It makes for busy workdays for Deb and I, since we have to do all supplemental and support work — we’re the go-phers and cleaners and decision-makers and designers and buyers. But it’s a good time, working with and hanging out with my parents.
I have noticed, though, that after a week of virtually no reading or writing time, I start to not just want it or miss it, but to crave it. I start to feel a longing. I’ve had about an hour today (right now) to sit alone and check my email and write this post. But this is the most such time I’ve had. I guess if my daily life were regularly so physically active, I’d get used to it and figure out a way to carve out reading and writing time. But maybe not. It’d be hard. When we stop working in the evening, I just want to veg or sleep.
Speaking of which, I gotta go and figure out what we’re doing for dinner. Break time (i.e., read/write time) is over.