Let me talk to you about sharing.
There are a couple of uses of the word, with which most are familiar. There’s the “half and half” sharing we learn as toddlers, wherein you get a cookie, I get two. You get a cookie – never mind, I get all the cookies. Let’s talk about blocks…
Then there’s the “sharing from the heart” that I will attempt on this page.
The origin of the word “share” (see Websters) is the Middle English word schare, from Old English scear; akin to Old High German scaro plowshare, Old English scieran to cut — hmm, cut. Seems appropriate and I’ll tell you why …
Since last December my son has been staying with me for “a while.” (His definition, not mine). Life had taken its toll and he needed some Mommy time (my definition, not his). And so, not having had the wisdom to take pen and paper and notary seal in hand, I said, “sure.”
I was thrilled. A mom lives to hear that her children need her. Many, of us do, anyway. In my case, I had hungered to even hear from him. The ole, is he dead and did he wear clean underwear kind of thing.
He had spent time in the Army, and though he was always Stateside, I worried. Especially since apparently they’d broken his fingers and he couldn’t even text. My goodness.
And so, I drove the million (less than 200) miles to get him, and his few paltry boxes, with joy.
Now, I’m not saying I had no reservations. I also own a few paltry boxes, ok, a few more than his, but not many. Pretty Spartan. I live in an efficiency apartment: Small, in other words, and not in a cute tiny houses way like you see in magazines. It is strictly functional, and may I emphasize, intended for one person.
The pay (disability) check, also intended for one.
The energy of the lessee, also limited to one. I had worked hard to reach this stage of my life: That stage of knowing my limits, having experienced the ups and downs of bipolar that reinforce those limits.
Ok, I guess you probably get my drift.
Now let us get down to the nitty gritty. The most painful part of this process, going on a year later? Sharing my computer.
Now I admit, my computer’s chief function is my amusement. Yes, it’s been a lifeline at times. Yes, I have made fast friends that I hope to have for a lifetime. But mostly, it’s for fun. And I resent having to curb my amusement. There is only so much I can stand of reading in bed. (No offense to the authors). I know, DS [Dear Son] requires more amusement than I, after all, I am more mature, but waaaah! I want my computer!
And now I have something semi-productive that I need to do with it. I need to write my 50,000 worrrrds for Nano! And though I can say what I mean on Facebook or in my blog, there are conditions that have to be met when I am seriously writing, and Nano qualifies:
1. I need to be alone. Someone waiting his turn or sleeping on the couch does not meet this criterion.
2. I need to be able to pound on the keyboard or tippie-toe on it, according to the emotion I’m trying to convey. Again, trying not to wake the giant does not meet this requirement.
3. I need to be inspired, and not harboring ideas of throwing out the baby with the bathwater. I mean couch. Again, this does not achieve my goal.
There are more things I could add to this list. For example, my sugar and caffeine levels must be exquisitely balanced. The humidity and temperature must meet certain requirements. My pencils must be 90 degrees Fahrenheit.
But an actual excuse? I don’t like it.
That said, let me tell you about the bathroom…