When People Ask What I Do, I Tell Them "Laundry"

In ten minutes, I need to stop writing and pack his lunch. Make that nine minutes.

The dryer bangs a zipper against its belly, a sound even towels can't silence. The computer hums. I can tell it's trying too hard.

I'm glad for the noiselessness of dust and dirt and paperwork. It's a mess, but at least it's a quiet mess.

Snow doesn't speak, either. That's probably why it has a reputation for being so sneaky. The people in charge of the cold front maps say another foot might come between two afternoons. I predict it will start after it is too late for early dismissal, but just in time to make the drive home from gymnastics interesting.

I found an old notebook yesterday, and in it, a list. The kind of list I used to keep, the kind that kept me rolling my shoulders and head around so my neck would stop whining. My neck never stopped whining, not until the day after I didn't need the list anymore.

*Korea stock letters
*CFO equity study
*Summary of Swiss pension take-aways
*Send filing reqs summary to (M&A lawyer)
*Follow up on French sub-plan
*Orlando agenda
*Memo to Comp Committee
*COS chart for HK/ China

And it went on like that for pages, days and weeks, until eventually I crossed off that entire part of my life.

Now, when people ask me what I do, I tell them, "Laundry." I'm sure they wonder why I'm smiling about it like I just found a winning lottery ticket, but haven't told anyone yet. I can't blame them for wondering whether I was crazy to give up partnership for motherhood. They haven't seen the old lists.
And they haven't seen the new ones either.

If they saw them, they'd know why I'm smiling.

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