A day of intrusions and interruptions, time managed or not managed or managed badly, phones and calendars and schedules and the usual demoralizing effort to find a stretch of usable time while engulfed by chaos.
The time, even if found, is not always fruitful; so much depends on what goes before. A hard morning can obliterate a perfectly free afternoon, making it useless for anything but errands and busywork.
Knowing I am unlikely to have the opportunity to complete a thought, I struggle to begin. There's always the knock at the door, the doorbell ringing, the phone, perfectly reasonable requests for this or that.
At the same time, Jane is learning, again, where she ends and I begin. On her own, she goes further now than she did at two or four, on trips that require more complex supplies. Her development is relentless. As it should be. I fail to adapt quickly enough, which I know is also fine, and inevitable. Still, the guilt.
Outside, the sky is densely white, holding back a foot of snow.
