I'm not in a routine yet. There is no gentle swing of the day with time carved out for getting my writing done. Ever since we moved at the end of July, we've been putting out fires.
As anyone who works at home knows that the only way to accomplish squat is to have a certain part of the day that is "your time." When you sit at the computer and ignore the dirty laundry and the unopened mail. When you go into the zone and just go at it. There is no zone with kids around. I can blog with a kid on my lap. But I can't write anything coherent with that kid trying desperately to click on the Teletubbies website.
Since we've moved, we've had one hernia operation, a trip to emergency room to remove a nail, poison sumac, and two colds. We've been slowing unpacking and finding places for the toys and books. Repair men tromp through the house to put a cap on the chimney, repair a hole in the chimney, fix electrical sockets, hook up cable and high speed internet access, flush out bees that had nested under the shingles, cut down a vine that has become entangled in the electrical wires, and patch a leak in the roof. Next week, I have to get the car registered before we get thrown in the clink.
Part of the reason that we moved to the suburbs is because I thought I would have more time to work. It'll happen after I find the time to locate some childcare for the two year old, but I'm not there yet. So far, the suburbs are kicking my ass.