Five days with no smart phone

This past Tuesday morning, my phone -which has always seemed like an iLemon and, as I've now found out, is eligible for not one but two part recalls- fritzed out in a grim way. Its capacitive touch screen refused to register 99% of all input, and so, while I could see and hear that I was receiving emails, texts and calls, I could do nothing to acknowledge or access those. As the iPhone 6 is not yet out and I have a few weeks left on my contract before I can purchase a new one at the reduced rate, T said he'd fix mine by installing a new screen which he quickly ordered and was to arrive yesterday. In the meantime, I was phoneless.

The first 24 hours were, I'm sad to admit, rather like what I imagine detox to be like. Though I'd sent a mass email letting everyone know that I was only reachable via home phone and email, I did feel wildly out of touch and slightly insecure. I couldn't let anyone know I was running late. If I were in a wreck, I wouldn't be able to call anyone for help. People couldn't reach me in any immediate way. What was happening on Facebook? When would I get to see those pictures a friend texted me?

As the next day rolled in and back out, I felt increasingly peaceful and less harried. Checking email every five hours versus every five minutes reminded me that my life has little in the way of fires that need to be doused and to-dos that are as urgent as they often feel. There aren't many emails that really need to be answered ASAP. Most Facebook updates aren't life-altering or even important. Twitter and Pinterest  haven't even entered my conscience.

Not sleeping with my phone on my night table has meant non-distracted bedtime reading. It's meant waking up each morning without the beckoning buzz of unreads, 90% of which are nothing more than advertisements and utterly inconsequential "news."

Not carrying my phone with me has let my mind slow and be in the moment to a much greater degree than it is when calls and pings make me feel like I'm jumping through a sieve. I've known both that I'm unreachable and that I can't reach out, and that has, frankly, been enormously freeing.

Most of us are so busy, too busy, in the best of times. This forced experiment has taught me that 'right now immediacy' is often a false veil that hides us from peace and mindfulness. It may sound silly, but I have really learned much this week and hope to adjust life in the future accordingly.

Food for thought!

Odd offering

For most or all of the past four days, Oliver has come into our bed between 3 and 5am. I'm not sure exactly how many times this has happened because I feel like I'm living in one of those swirly, Austin Powers-type swirls; the days are being sucked into a psychedelic vortex in which time ceases to be any sort of reasonable, helpful marker.

He claims nightmares, ideas, a desire to sleep "in yah bed, Mom"... before propping head on my stomach and feet into Tom. One morning, after I pleaded with him to return to his bed and let us sleep, he left but later brought me an offering. It was rather like the human equivalent of a fresh kill your cat drops on your doorstep: tiny bags (popped air-bag insulation) filled with cat and dog food and taped shut.

"In case we suddenly run out of pet food, Mom. Then we'll have these." I think I said "Thank you and nice thought"?

Needless to say, we're all bushed.

Perhaps that is why I way over-salted what should and could have been a scrumptious dinner last night. What a sad waste. My own canned tomatoes, fresh squid, a thoughtfully constructed sauce underpinned with anchovies, saffron, shallots and garlic. Boo!!

An irreparable bummer, but at least the baguette we were to have dipped in the sauce made for a great sandwich today.

Look at this guy happily a'snuggle with moi. Love!

Gawl dang

Some afternoons with kids are just sub-par. Things started off so well today, what with a surprise chocolate donut with sprinkles as an after-school treat, a trip to the pet store to purchase two replacement fish (no additional deaths; just the original two), and a(nother) game of Forbidden Island.

Oliver, however, has been crying on and off since the pet store over a kitten named Garth that he desperately wants. One of the checkout women actually put her hand over her heart as she watched me attempt to console his tearful demonstration. Look, I love kittens and think there's little cuter than a darling face just begging you to take him home. Had I not been convinced T would consider moving out, I'd probably have adopted tiny Garth. But we have a burgeoning menagerie over here, so I kept telling Ol that "right now we just need to get these wonderful new fish home before their air runs out."

Of course the air situation wasn't that dire, but really, I had to get that boy out of that store!

We returned home, played said game of Forbidden Island and then Oliver remembered Garth, the "kitten with the blue necklace (collar)," and lost his business anew.

Jack, meanwhile, was all smiles and thrill until some invisible lever switched into the Hyde mode, and he went bonkers about Tom's request to "clean up the seaweed you spit into your own bath tub [another incident that left Oliver in mournful, aggrieved tears] and all over the floor." Jack actually said this request was unfair.

All you can do is laugh in a situation like this because that response and attempt at a decent argument is beyond asinine.

It was with real happiness, then, that I tottered off to back to school night in another pair of fabulous heels. And now I'm home and feeling newly grateful and incredibly inspired about the truly excellent teachers that guide my children through their school days. Wow.