Two Hours of Peace and Quiet

Every time I watch Misery, I can’t help but think that Paul Sheldon – unmarried, no kids, living in what was probably a pretty nice place somewhere – could have saved himself a LOT of trouble (car wreck, kidnapping, hobbling, etc) if he had just stayed home to write his book. I mean didn’t the dude have a home office?

I don’t have a home office and most days I don’t need one. I write at the kitchen table or, if other people are home, in my bedroom. Yesterday, as I mentioned, other people were home and I knew it was going to be a challenge so I attempted to set myself up for success. At 9:00am, I gave the girl my computer, told the boy to play with his Xbox, and asked my husband if I could have a couple of hours to write. He was reading the paper in bed – a few feet away – and I assumed that we would coexist silently in the same space. I settled in and began recording the stream of consciousness that normally kicks off this process.

About 15 minutes had passed, when all of a sudden it became necessary that we make French toast for breakfast. I thought to myself…yeah, I probably should have stuffed everyone like ticks before I started. I’ll take a quick break, make breakfast, and then surely they’ll let me work.

Surely.

But we didn’t have bread – a key ingredient of French toast or any toast. And what’s more…I didn’t really know what kind of bread we should use. So I Googled “Best French Toast Recipe” and found something on the Food Network site. It suggested day-old Brioche or Challah -- because everyone just keeps those around, right? I sent my husband to the market to get sourdough (because we live in the South…not in a three-story walk-up over a bakery) and eggs because we were out of those too.

I started cooking the bacon in the oven, made a pot of coffee (because really, how much writing was I going to get done without that?), and had just poured myself a cup when the bread and eggs arrived. So I whipped up the toast while everyone sat in the family room – didn’t take too long just 30 minutes -- and now I was sure that everyone would be content to let me work. Overconfident about my situation, I headed upstairs to write.

I had spent no more than 5 minutes scanning my earlier musings and was about to continue my train of thought when I heard footsteps on the stairs…then in the hall…and then I heard the sound of my bedroom door opening.

The boy.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here. I was going to watch TV, but I’ll just go downstairs.”

Me.

“I thought you were playing on the Xbox.”

Him.

“I was, but [the girl] took it.”

Seeking the path of least resistance, I conceded my space, went into the boy’s room, and settled into the zero-gravity lawn chair that he uses as furniture in the man cave under his loft bed. Comfy.

By this point, the first hour of my “two hours of peace and quiet” had passed and I had about 300 words – unedited. I re-re-read what I wrote before and actually had about 10 more quiet minutes before the girl came in and asked, “What are going to do today?” In a clipped tone I responded, “I’m going to write. I’m going to write this entire blog post. I’m going to write this entire blog post in one sitting. When I’m done writing this entire blog post, we will discuss what we are going to do today.” She rolled her eyes and left.

I didn’t bother rereading this time…that was clearly a luxury for another day… and continued on for about 5 minutes before the boy came in with his backpack and said he was going to do his homework but he needed help because he had to double-space his paper and didn’t know how. I sent him down to get the laptop and when he returned, I set up his document and left him to his writing…hoping that he might return the favor.

I headed back to my room, plopped down on my bed…shoulders all tensed up and brow furrowed…and in walked the girl. Again.

“Can I have two friends over to spend the night?”

Clearly she wasn’t going to leave me alone until she had at least an idea of what her day was going to be like. Sundays are so hard when you’re a teenager. Once again, I stopped writing so I could go down and consult with my husband about a sleepover. We agreed that it should only happen if she cleaned her entire room, part of the family room, and the bathroom. We then went upstairs together to tell her because we’ve learned through experience that the only way to survive these kids is with a united front. 

We gave her the conditions and AGAIN with the eye rolling. I started to lose it, but I kept my cool. Before she had a chance to tell me that all her friends’ houses are just as messy as ours and that I shouldn't care so much (which is her go-to argument against cleaning), I told her that I had been to her friends’ houses and no they are not as messy as ours and yes we are serious about these conditions.

She started to argue and this time I did not keep my cool.

I won’t repeat the rant...it was lengthy…but the gist was: 

This is my job and everyone needs to get the hell out of my space so I can work.

My job. See…I’m getting there.

I told them that writers who can’t finish anything aren’t actually writers and they were all keeping me from being the person I am supposed to be. 

Yeah, I actually blamed them -- not my finest moment.

In reality, my progress (or lack thereof) was my responsibility and not because I was attempting to write while everyone was in the house and I should have just given up. NO. It was my fault because all I had to do was say, “No I will not make French toast,” and then lock the bedroom door. 

No one would have starved. The boy would have entertained himself somewhere else until he started his homework. He then would have typed his paper single-spaced and I would have helped him fix it later. The girl would’ve kept watching Miranda Sings or surfed Ebay or Snapchatted her friends 1000 times each. She would have been fine.

And I would have been finished in two hours as I had originally intended to be.

I’ve been a parent for 14 years and I should know by now that no one gives anyone peace and quiet around here – I have to take it or make it. That is why Paul Sheldon went to his secluded cabin in Colorado where there weren’t any phones or computers or iPads or televisions or people asking him, “What we are going to do today?” And if he made French toast, it was because he hadn’t given up sugar for 30 days and he was making it for himself. All Paul Sheldon needed was a typewriter and a bottle of champagne to drink when he was finished and it all makes sense to me now. When I finally got finished yesterday…after the French toast and the moving from room to room and the double spacing and my temper tantrum…completing those 1100 words felt entirely worthy of some celebratory bubbly.

But I would have finished the bottle...not taken off in my car in the middle of a blizzard only to crash into a snow bank, be kidnapped, and held hostage by some cockadoodie psycho. I would have taken a nap and waited for the storm to pass.

For those following along on the 30-day challenge, Day 7 without sugar was pretty much like day 6. I didn’t eat enough of anything today – or drink enough water -- because I was distracted by a chore that began at 10:00am and should have taken an hour but instead took until 5:00pm. Which is why this blog post is being published at 7:30pm.

It was a little bit like the search for the yahrzeit candles, though less fun.

But that’s a story for another day.