What does it mean when your husband turns to you, holds up his shirt and asks, “Who’s putting the laundry away now?”

Peering at him, I wondered, is this a trick question?  Did he think we had little laundry fairies running around the house these days?  Tapping back my thoughts, I stated the obvious.  “I am, of course.” 

“Can you explain this?”

Gazing at his golf shirt I thought, too any wrinkles?  Is that my problem?  I did buy that steamer.  The man knows how to use it.  Why was he bothering me with this?

But the question remained.  “Explain what?” I asked.

“Look closely.”

I did and to my complete embarrassment, noticed nothing awry.

He moved closer and held the seam up for my inspection.

Realization hit, swift and sure. With a thud, actually, square in the rear.  “Oh.”  

The darn thing was hung on the hanger inside out!

I glanced back to him and returned a sheepish smile. “I must have been busy when I was hanging that up.”

Not angry, not shocked, he shook his head.  “Hm.  Must have been.” Without another word, he removed his shirt from the hangar, pulled it outside out and slipped it on over his head. Quietly, calmly, he continued about his business.

Staring at him as he walked out of the bedroom, I wondered, is that what writing does to a gal? Talk about multi-tasking malfunction!

And to think I thought I had it all under control; whacking away at the keyboard, caught up in passionate love scenes, diligently ignoring the thump of the washing machine as it banged the opposite side of my office wall.

Hmph. So much for my fine job of compartmentalizing with amazing efficiency.  Apparently I’m a slacker! 

Laundry slacker, that is.  But you know…I don’t really love laundry.  I don’t even hate it.  I frankly feel no passion towards the activity at all (which is probably why I’m not very good with it). 

Same goes for dinner.  Most of the time, the meal isn’t even on my radar.  Something my husband simply cannot fathom.  “How can you forget about dinner? Happens every day, same time, same place…”  Then he gives me that look, as though some of the marbles have bounced clear out of my ears.  But he doesn’t dare ask the question most certainly poking around his brain. “Are you okay?”

I’m fine.  Great, actually.  I’m writing all day!  I’m creating!  I’m lost in my very own world of fantasy and escape–how could I not be fabulous?

Er—that’s sort of the problem.  When you’re officially a stay-at-home mother, you’re supposed to be focused on the children, the house, the husband.  You’re supposed to accomplish your to-do list of laundry and cleaning, grocery shopping and cooking–not escaping into romantic fantasy.

Yes, well, what can I say?  I’m easily distracted. I’m creative.  My mind doesn’t work with the same discipline and logic as my husband’s engineer-oriented brain. 

Okay, that’s not entirely true.  When I’m outlining a novel or organizing my book notes I am ALL logic and discipline—it simply doesn’t extend to the household chores!  Something I might want to remember next time I ask my children why their bedrooms are in a shambles, or why their laundry baskets have overflowed to the point they can no longer see their shoes!  What will I say when they look around their room, then with give a shrug to their shoulders and reply, “I guess I got distracted.”

Really now…