We travelled the 300 plus miles to Missouri this weekend for a dose of grandparents and cousins.
While I was there, I caught an itch, similar to hers. My itch is a dissatisfaction caused by comparing myself, an object at rest, to my mom, an object in motion...always...always...always in motion.
She cooked (no, 'let's just eat out tonight'), straightened, laundered, hulled, swept and wiped all weekend long. Of course, I pitched in, I just didn't maintain her pace.
Her bustle is in contrast to my nose-in-a-book, head-in-the-clouds, hand-folded state of being.
I've inherited so many of the physical traits, even the temperament, of my mother. Why, oh why, did I not get that crucial trait of busy-ness? I'm merely a sloppy charicature of her and her hard-working ways.
I have an itch for a different kind of inertia....more like my momma's. One that doesn't rest until it gets done. One that says 'no' to the inclination to quit for now. One that's a little more thorough and complete and attentive to detail. One that's a little less beholden to good enough.
Incidentally, the kids got an itch too, but theirs came from the chiggers.
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