Dumping Superwoman

I am restless, today, irritated, like there’s a sliver in my thumb that I can’t extract. I feel pulled in too many directions, overwhelmed. No matter where I am in the house I see a task that needs doing: a stack of clothes to be mended, memorabilia to be sorted, laundry to be washed, dried, folded and put away.

There are so many ‘little jobs’ that need doing. I don’t know which one to take on first: the legal work I’m behind on? The yard? The house?

I’ve already hosted an Easter Sunday lunch and egg hunt today and – fun though it was – I’m tired. I try to nap, but can’t. Outside, the lawn begs to be raked, the gardens need cleaning up, the garage needs to be swept. Outside, it is also eighty degrees and sunny, miraculous weather for April 4th. Right. I pull on my old work clothes and head out the door.

I start on the side garden, a skinny strip of dirt running the length of the garage. I clear away the dead foliage, see raw hosta shoots poking out of the soil. Iris will soon follow, then bleeding hearts, purple balloon flowers and later, black-eyed susan. It takes no time at all to clear this little patch. I feel better. I dump the dried leavings in the compost pile. My spirits bolstered, I decide to take on the boulevard (that is, the lawn that begs to be raked).

Now understand something: my lawn is huge. Huge. The boulevard alone is probably 1800 square feet. Undeterred, I set to work with a fan rake, thinking that I can defeat this if I go at in sessions. The grass is dry and densely thatched. I cover a twelve by twelve patch before I come to my senses and give up.

Usually I know better. I enjoy working in the yard because it gives me a reason to be outside, to listen to the birds (none of whom I can identify), to breathe deeply of fresh air. The minute it becomes a goal-oriented activity, I am done for. I know this.

Sometimes I forget.

What I need to remember is this: We live in the country. Sort-of. The yard doesn’t have to be perfect. It is fine as it is. So either I need to accept that or I need to hire some help. I am not Superwoman, for heaven’s sakes. The thought stops me in my tracks: I am not Superwoman. And no one is asking me to be. The thousand other jobs awaiting me suddenly seem doable. Share-able. Delegatable. This is something I need to learn, no, to actually do: To Give Away a Job. I put down my rake. I remember a hand-made sign posted at the mail-box – “Spring Yard Clean-up” with little tear-away phone numbers. Right.

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