I’ve been craving some peace.

 Just a taste. Just a bit.

 Just a day without worry or stress, without deadlines or expectations.

Without a To-Do list.

 To experience once again that same feeling of being a child, tucked in bed by a parent, surrounded by stuffed animals. Clean sheets. The weight of heavy blankets. The sound of their conversation and laughter spilling into my room through the not-quite-closed door.

 Falling asleep knowing you’re taken care of. 

Instead of falling asleep with a mind still at warp speed or feeling guilty for trying to rest when there are so many chores still needing done. 

“Being a grown up doesn’t seem like much fun,” my ten-year-old daughter said, while watching me clean. 

“Parts of it are,” I said. “There are some parts about being a grown up I wouldn’t trade for the world, but you’re right. It’s often not fun.” 

“You miss being a kid?” Celeste asked. 

I looked over at her, skating on sock feet across the hardwood floor.

“I miss it more than you know.” 

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 I suppose I should be flattered that someone took my advice to heart, even if they did alter my advice in a way I never would’ve imagined.

A few years back, I was speaking before a small group at a writers conference when someone asked, “If you could give one piece of advice to an aspiring writer, what would it be?”

After thinking about my own situation for a moment, I said, “Get a cat.” 

I went on to explain how most people who claim they want to be writers also claim they have no time to write. I say if they’re serious about writing and want to find time, they should get a cat. During their first week with the cat, they should set their alarm clock for 4 or 5 a.m. (or an hour or two before they normally rise). When the alarm rings, they should immediately get up and feed the cat something wonderful–the best canned cat food money can buy. After about a week, the cat’s internal alarm will be set.

For life. 

Every morning from then on, the feline alarm will wake the aspiring writer at that same early hour. There are no snooze buttons on cats, although you can try to ignore them. Actually, I suspect they enjoy when you do, believing it gives them license to increase the gentle taps and quiet mews to solid whacks, hair pulls, nose nips, and yowls.

Dogs may be loyal, but cats are dependable. Dependable and loyal and persistent as hell. 

My own three cats have myriad techniques. One serenades from the hall, one plays the floor vent like a xylophone, and the third strums the hamper. The hamper-strummer and singer can be tuned out, but the xylophone player is impossible to ignore. The last time I tried, he waterboarded me.

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I realized our new church was going to be a good fit after learning my Sunday school class was holding their summer picnic in November and their Christmas party in January.

As someone who has yet to begin her Spring cleaning, I felt right at home.  

That being said, it probably seems unlikely for someone with my extensive procrastination credentials (I put off going through puberty until age to be writing about her personal experiences with shopping early for Christmas, but I did. So I am.

In other news–hell has frozen over.  

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