priorities

This is to remind myself about priorities — that a lot of the things I do, I do because I choose to, because I have prioritized something or other. It's something I often forget. I am easily guilted, and now that there is the Spanish Inquisition, there is always something to feel guilty about.

I have a neighbour who has a child about the Spanish Inquisition's age, and she is wondrous. Her house is spectacular; everything is always tidy and clean; she always looks put together. The first time she invited me over, she served me a no-rise, gluten-free loaf of bread ... that she had baked herself that morning ... with sprouts that she had grown. While dealing with an under-one baby, who did not sleep through the night, who was still nursing, who woke up around the (literal) crack of dawn.

I'm pretty sure I just rolled out of bed that day around 9 o'clock. (We were very lucky around that time: the Spanish Inquisition didn't sleep through the night, but she did sleep in.) I may or may not have brushed my hair.

The thing is, though, her house is always clean because it's important to her. I've seen her spot-Pledge the floor after someone accidentally spilled a bit of tea or biscuit on it. Me? I've been known to step around cat puke. (Not for more than a few hours, and not where the Spanish Inquisition is liable to come upon it. But otherwise ... it's been known to happen, is what I'm saying.) So, obviously, a clean house is a little bit more important to her than it is to me. She has beautiful, modern teak furniture and a sparkly kitchen. I have feral dust bunnies rapidly gaining sentience.

This weekend, I gave her child a little handknit cardigan. I gave myself a couple of weeks to do it, and at no point was I terribly worried over it — it had a (very easy) cable pattern and raglan sleeves. Granted, I did end up sewing the buttons on while slightly drunk the night before — but that was only because my silk-camel yarn arrived and I absolutely had to immediately cast on; it wasn't a race to the end. I say all this because everybody else was very amazed by it — how did I find the time to knit? It must have taken so much of my free time. And I felt very abashed, like I'd pulled a fast one on them. The truth is, it hadn't really taken me any time at all.

... Except then it dawned on me (and Pd helped me with this), that it also sort of did. All that time when she was catching up on housework, or making herself presentable, I was ... knitting. Or reading. And I shouldn't feel guilty about that (although, of course, hello!, I do). It's priorities. Having a house that is the perpetual mess of mine would drive her mad. Not having the time to knit or read would make me insane. And so, we choose the things that make us happy. And that doesn't make us any better, or worse, than the other person.

I am really trying very hard to remember this. I bet her kid never tried to stuff a dust bunny in his mouth.*

*This is not true, actually. I just remembered: he has. At my place.