The new work schedule is crazy. I leave the house at 6 15 am, post shower, email check, coffee..I even manage to kohl my eyes. ( all of which means I wake up at 4 30).
I get home at 9 pm. To just about climb into bed, and read,take of my clothes, get into my pajamas, and remote-control-press-play music for about 30 minutes,(all from under the huge fat blanket) before I start stressing that Ill over sleep the next morning, or that I actually have to get out of bed and work some more.
Thats not so bad, though.
I dont get to read, ( I havent read a page of a week all this week), I dont get to walk or run, (walking to the bus stop with my backpack ,which is the size of a three-week-tour-of-Europe does NOT qualify).I dont get to sit at my reading corner, or the sofa. I dont get to do dishes and laundry.
But thats,still ok.
I dont get to talk to family, or plan anything with friends. Im tired of being enthusiastic, and then calling to cancel as im either too tired, or stuck in traffic, or am still at work. I dont get to do a lot of things.
Thats fine,too.
What breaks my heart is leaving Billy Joe at home. The Boka furball is all of two months old, and still needs company, and some one to appreciate his many feats of playing with a ball of paper, or a string, or jumping from the bed to the chair, or the desk to the window sill and so on so forth. Ive got his feed cycle and meals sorted, and I know I have to get him trained to stay at home during the day all alone. And all the while on my way home, I only worry about Billy Joe being hungry, or cranky, or restless. And I feel bad and guilty, instead of hungry and tired.
I feel awful.
Which is why, I get right under the blanket as soon as I get home. Billy spends all day locked in the bedroom, so Im sure he would enjoy exploring wires, sharpening his claws, or hanging from the curtains in the other parts of the house, on different furniture and surfaces. But no, he spends half an hour being mad on the bed. He pounces, chases his own tail, attacks my hair, charges at my finger rings, does his guerilla warfare routine through the pillows and my discarded sweater. He sits on my back as I roll over to read, curls up somewehre on me, and seems to be bursting with news of everything that has transpired through the day. He trips over his own feet, hunts my toes in the blanket, and pounces on different parts of the blanket for God knows what purpose.
Billy Joe kind of needs this 30 minutes of time and attention. He doesnt make demands for dinner, or expressions of irritation, or of restlessness.
He just needs to let me know that he missed someone to play with during the day. Or to show off how far he has learnt to jump.
Dinner follows. Then I work some more. Then I plan some more. Then I think some more.
But the 30 minutes of blanket-time is the best part of the day.
I get home at 9 pm. To just about climb into bed, and read,take of my clothes, get into my pajamas, and remote-control-press-play music for about 30 minutes,(all from under the huge fat blanket) before I start stressing that Ill over sleep the next morning, or that I actually have to get out of bed and work some more.
Thats not so bad, though.
I dont get to read, ( I havent read a page of a week all this week), I dont get to walk or run, (walking to the bus stop with my backpack ,which is the size of a three-week-tour-of-Europe does NOT qualify).I dont get to sit at my reading corner, or the sofa. I dont get to do dishes and laundry.
But thats,still ok.
I dont get to talk to family, or plan anything with friends. Im tired of being enthusiastic, and then calling to cancel as im either too tired, or stuck in traffic, or am still at work. I dont get to do a lot of things.
Thats fine,too.
What breaks my heart is leaving Billy Joe at home. The Boka furball is all of two months old, and still needs company, and some one to appreciate his many feats of playing with a ball of paper, or a string, or jumping from the bed to the chair, or the desk to the window sill and so on so forth. Ive got his feed cycle and meals sorted, and I know I have to get him trained to stay at home during the day all alone. And all the while on my way home, I only worry about Billy Joe being hungry, or cranky, or restless. And I feel bad and guilty, instead of hungry and tired.
I feel awful.
Which is why, I get right under the blanket as soon as I get home. Billy spends all day locked in the bedroom, so Im sure he would enjoy exploring wires, sharpening his claws, or hanging from the curtains in the other parts of the house, on different furniture and surfaces. But no, he spends half an hour being mad on the bed. He pounces, chases his own tail, attacks my hair, charges at my finger rings, does his guerilla warfare routine through the pillows and my discarded sweater. He sits on my back as I roll over to read, curls up somewehre on me, and seems to be bursting with news of everything that has transpired through the day. He trips over his own feet, hunts my toes in the blanket, and pounces on different parts of the blanket for God knows what purpose.
Billy Joe kind of needs this 30 minutes of time and attention. He doesnt make demands for dinner, or expressions of irritation, or of restlessness.
He just needs to let me know that he missed someone to play with during the day. Or to show off how far he has learnt to jump.
Dinner follows. Then I work some more. Then I plan some more. Then I think some more.
But the 30 minutes of blanket-time is the best part of the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment