Right, back to the curtains.
Actually, I know what I've been doing. There is one thing in this world that if I start, I pretty much don't stop until I'm finished.
I don't get out novels anymore from the library. I get out kiddy books and pretty, photo-filled books on craft and quilting and sometimes even gardening, but I suck in my bottom lip and walk past the novels. Why do I deny myself the simple pleasure of reading? Because I do nothing else that isn't essential until I have finished the book (unless it is a REALLY terrible book and there haven't been many of these in my life, maybe just this one!).
My kids look even more raggamuffiny than usual. I stir the dinner with book in hand. I look up with a distracted, "Hmmmm?" when my husband asks me if I'd like joint custody of the children because he's leaving me if I don't get my nose out of that book.
But I fell of the wagon and picked up a novel at my latest trip to the library. "Just one." I told myself. Bryce Courtenay's "Matthew Flinders' Cat". Very good it was too. Totally distracted me from the fact that I was meant to be making curtains.
Before I got to the novel I was engaged in SOME productive activities.
Like baking (and then eating) my daughter's birthday cake (it's a turtle!).
And admiring my cabbage grown in a pot.
Checking out another beautiful view.
And admiring my sweet kids (this moment lasted all of 60 seconds!).