I claim that I can work through anything and it’s largely true. Long practice, I’m sure: way back when, I could walk through crowded school hallways without ever pausing in my reading to try to get a few more pages in between classes. Back when I was freelancing, I was perfectly capable of writing a coherent news story with a three-year-old pulling on one arm. Reading while walking is actually easier than writing while parenting, but the practice focusing during the former probably made the latter possible. The experience of the latter has made my current work a breeze. I really could probably work through a hurricane, if the power stayed on.
Today, my parents brought the kids over, and while sitting at my desk, I could see R, T, and C playing in the pool. It was another phenomenal day–I might have considered it too hot, just a few short weeks ago–and there was laughing and splashing and moderate shrieking. Meanwhile, the dog couldn’t decide where to be, Dad was working on fixing the wood of the pillar two feet away from me, and the bird was sure that since I was at my desk I should let her out (she’s not concerned with trivial details like the risk of someone opening the doors to the outside) and kept trying to tell me so. Loudly.
And yet still, I worked. I’m torn, though, between being pleased with myself (what focus!) and hoping that this wasn’t one of those days that one regrets wasting on one’s deathbed. The fun chaos of having six people in the house is all too rare in my life.