Well, here we are on Day 3 of what will someday be our infamous Staycation. My husband went golfing. Because someone should be enjoying this beautiful sunshine. I’m still at home. Our son has the fever now. Both kids coughed so violently through the night that nobody in the house slept. Now they’re watching the same movie they’ve already watched five times in the last three days. Because it keeps them still long enough for their fevers to break. I thought I should at least try to use this abundant downtime to do something productive … like sort through the toys again or minimize the story books my kids have outgrown. Turns out that even with the few items they’ve kept during the course of the last six months, I can’t make sense of any of it until we have shelves. I’ve been trying to avoid buying shelves, because I figured as pure minimalists, we shouldn’t have enough “stuff” to fill the shelves, which are actually just additional items in and of themselves, right? Well, then my common sense kicked in, and I realized that until we can organize our current “stuff” and make sense of which items to keep and which to give, I’m going to keep living in chaos–where my kids’ closets are concerned. So, I’m officially on strike against organizing the kids’ rooms until the shelves arrive. So, here I am … on strike against minimizing. With two sick kids who are watching TV. Again. My husband is out enjoying his stress-relieving zen sport. (Which, technically, he would be doing if we were on a real vacation anyhow, so … par for the course, if you will.)
I’m not saying I’m on the verge of losing my mind. I’m just offering a word of advice. I’d keep my distance from this Cabin Fever Quarantine if I were you. (Unless you’re bringing over dark chocolate and wine. In that case, mi casa es su casa.)
Seriously though. If I’m going to encourage my children to use their imaginations, I suppose I should step up and be a leader. So, here I am … channeling my inner Tommy Bahama. Island tunes playing in the background. Nail polish drying on my toes. Garlic-ginger chicken marinating in the refrigerator. And I can hear a Siesta calling my name.
When I wake up, I might drag out my art supplies. Because when I picture myself alone on a deserted island, somehow I wound up there with an easel and an endless supply of paints and canvases. I still think I’m an artist, you know.