…and a greyhound for running.” So begins the romantic epic, Don Quixote.
Much of my domestic life at home feels like it runs parallel to that old man’s tragic story. I often wonder if raising children, staying married, balancing the chequebook and keeping ahead of the dirty laundry doesn’t really require mental fortitude but only a certain amount of insanity. If only I were insane enough to not recognize the innate futility in some of the things I do. If only I were mentally imbalanced enough to not recognize that being a mother often makes you the butt of some really big cosmic jokes. Often, I feel like I roll out of bed every morning, take my lance from the rack (coffee), pick up my aged shield (daily devotions), and kick the worn out horse (beat-up Honda) awake so I can begin the daily battles. Or, should I say, my quests. My heroic, often misled, quests.
For example, I have been trying magnificently to stop my youngest child from emitting horrendously long and loud burps in public. He tells me he tries to hold them in his mouth until he gets to the bathroom to let them out but by that time, they’ve already gone to his stomach. How can I rage against this perfect logic? I lack the insight which would lead me to see this stalemate as a romantic challenge waiting for me to bring it to a chivalrous outcome. Instead, I suck on my coffee and go lay down. I’m at a loss. My windmills are mundane and sometimes, well, just kinda’ gross. But no less threatening, seen from the same point of view. I think I just lack the man from la Mancha’s insulating layer of warm, cozy insanity.
Here I am, however, still tilting at spinning-wheels.