Procrastination Freezes Time

My house is a mess, piled high with Twin Extra-long bedding, half-filled boxes, and a year’s supply of toothpaste and shampoo. My youngest daughter is going off to college.

When my first child left, rediscovering surfaces was the silver lining that eased my grief. I ought to be looking forward to a tidy house again. But I’m not. This time, cleanliness is next to emptiness. There are no more children who can leave a trail of dirty dishes and cast-off sneakers.

We hit the road after piling the boxes and bedding into the soon-to-be-obsolete minivan.

I return alone to an empty nest. It is still a mess, cluttered with projects whose postponement can no longer be justified by the responsibility of raising children.

I have been meaning to reorganize the closets, shelves, and cupboards for years. Now, boundless hours freed from carpool, costume-making, and nagging, there are no more excuses.

But I move at a glacial pace. Procrastination freezes time. If the bag of fabric scraps and googly eyes goes undisturbed, there might be another afternoon of arts and crafts, glitter and giggles permanently lodged in the kitchen’s every crevice.

Delay as I might, time refuses to stand still. One season after another has gone, whether or not I have done my spring cleaning. So with vague hopes that a decluttered house might make room for something I have yet to imagine, I start somewhere: the garage, as far away as possible from the heart of our home.

I yank an ancient Highlights: Puzzlemania from the back pocket of the minivan. It’s been more than a decade since it kept backseat whiners occupied. My kids have scribbled on every page; I cannot fob it off on even the most impoverished charity. Just toss it into the recycling bin, I cajole myself.

It remains on my desk.

The cover depicts a fairy-tale castle, flags flying from turrets, a million Escher-like staircases climbing crazily up and down. A bridge labeled “Start” spans the moat toward the castle. Another bridge, labeled “End,” leads away. “Find a path through the castle from start to finish,” Highlights entices the innocent.

Lost in the labyrinth of raising children, I don’t know how I’ll find my way out to the finish, or if I even want to. I am not yet ready to leave the castle.