There are tasks that I have trouble motivating myself to do. Sandwiching quilts is one of them. The process entails crawling around across the hardwood floor on my knees, poking safety pins every few inches into a surface the size of Nebraska. Or at least it feels that way. It also is an open invitation to the inhabitants of the house to walk across it. When the kids
were younger they could not resist traipsing around the border as if they were balancing on a garden wall with no danger of falling into the rosebushes made of fabric.
Another less than lovely task is the dishes. The stream of gunky plates and baked on frying pans is relentless for a family of six. No sooner am I satisfied to have cleared off the counters and wiped down the sink than I stride into the living room to find enough bowls and mugs to fill the racks
again.
Hence the need for small bites. I coax myself with incremental goals, to get me over the threshold.
Just tape the backing down to the floor.
Then I get a reward, like putting on Christopher Parkening Plays Bach. Once I have jollied myself that far, spreading the lumbering bolt of batting across it is less arduous. Then a piece of chocolate, and I have the momentum to
bring on the pins.
I read an article about improving your relationships but the line items sounded as big as Nebraska.
Be kind.
Don't get frustrated.
Listen with love.
That is great advice if you happen to already be Malala, but if altruism is not your signature characteristic I need bites the size of a
raisin.
No complaints for fifteen minutes when he walks in the door.
This helps diffuse my tendency to stack up Helpful Suggestions on How to Use Your Time.
Resist the urge to interrupt John by checking the ding on my phone, or answering a question lobbed from the next room.
It feels like a way to gradually melt the
icicles that skewer our interactions.
