Going Post-It

I remember when “going postal” was a euphemism for raging insanity, because of a postal service worker who shot his fellow employees.  When Scott travels, I find my center untethered, my sanity slipping, my patience fraying at an alarming rate.  A couple of years ago when I was coping alone I resorted to post-it notes, everywhere, to remember all the details of my usual responsibilities plus his, because our life is definitely a two-person job. Then I heard a silly song (Philadelphia Chickens CD) making fun of typical “I’m so important” busy-ness, and felt convicted.  I think I’m going post-it again.  Today I forgot to send my kids’ lunch to school, appreciate the irony of being called at the nutrition clinic by my son to tell me I forgot my own children’s nutrition.  I biked home to pull something together, then was leaving them and pulled out a list of things I was trying to remember from the hospital . . . And Annelise reminded me of my post-it note phase.  When I’m the single parent and single doctor and single team leader, life comes at me from all directions, and I find that I start to slip.  So the best prayer is to probably simply remember my sense of humor, sort out the truly important, and cheerfully let the rest slide.  But not lunch.