I Move Things

Years ago I was talking to one of my friends -- also the mother of three boys. She told me that she'd come up with an accurate description for her responsibilities as a mother. She said, "I move things. That's all I do." It feels like all I do too. I move...

Dirty dishes into the dishwasher and out again when they're clean.
Dirty clothes into the washer. Later I move the wet clothes into the dryer and then the dry clothes out to be folded.
Food from refrigerator to countertop to oven to plate to table.
Soap and toothpaste to another surface before I scrub the sink.
Boys to school, to practice, to games, to rehearsals, to friends' houses, to church events -- and back home, of course.
Trash to the trashcan.
Clothes to the foot of the stairs for boys to move upstairs to their rooms or to the laundry room.
Mail and papers to their appropriate homes...though not always immediately.
Dust and pet hair with the help of a broom, a vacuum, and a rag.

My work as an editor can be described in the same way. I move words, commas, and periods for a living.

I find comfort in the rhythm of moving things and putting them away. The repetition of mindless tasks and the temporary achievement of everything in its place soothes me. The predictability of routine is, I suspect, my attempt to placate that little girl inside who was always having the rug pulled out from under her. The unpredictability of those episodes left their mark, and this is one way that it shows.

There are two kinds of people in the world, I think. Those who like routine and repetition and those who prefer variety and spontaneity. I am the former, my husband is the latter. Poor him.

Well, time to go move some kids to the places they need to be.