Self-Discipline

It has been, um, many weeks since I last blogged. Make that many months. And while I have a long list of topics, I have addressed not one. The sad truth is, my blog is now a perfect reflection of me and my terrible lack of self-discipline.

I don't have so little self-discipline that I can't achieve things. I was a successful enough student. I was a successful enough teacher. And I think (some days) that I am a successful enough mother. (Future topic: What is success?)

But I do have that perfect dose of self-discipline that gets the work done eventually, but only under a deadline. This blog -- it has no deadlines.

Evidence of my procrastination skills:

For all my bravado in that "This I Believe" piece, I have not yet sorted through one corner of the disastrous basement or even one small closet. (Future topic: Having 17 months to prepare for a move is a special kind of hell for a girl like me. )

For my last two French exams I didn't complete my written and online exercises until the night before the test. (Gasp.) Panic ensued, but did I learn my lesson? No. For the record, I did learn the French enough to pass the exams. This behavior falls under the "successful enough student" moniker; I can cram at the last minute, write a paper at the last minute, and do well enough.

Oh, did I mention that I have had only three French exams? That first one, with work done well ahead of time, flashcards made and reviewed daily, etcetera, was an abberation. (Future topic: Being an adult student, carrying the successful strategies of college and graduate school into middle age.)

I write the PTA newsletter for my kids' elementary school. I won't even talk about what time I usually start it on Sunday evenings . . .

Ahh, wouldn't it be nice to meander a bit farther in this gentle shower of self-loathing?

I watch my children tending toward this bad procrastination habit, along with others of mine. The girl hates to get up in the morning. The boy has a real obsessive-compulsive streak. And both love butter way too much. (Future topic: My favorite story about bread and butter. Setting: Paris, France.) What kind of hypocrisy would it be to criticize it heavily? How much, really, do I suffer from it? How important is it to save my kids this suffering?

Suffering is too heavy a word here. What I do is procrastinate and what I do is pay the price when the deadline looms. Would my ideal self do this? No. But my ideal self wouldn't have spent minutes deciding between the Irish and the French butters at Whole Foods Market this afternoon, either.

I am not my ideal self. There is both grief and liberation in saying that in my late thirties.

But I do know that I reach for my better self when I write in this space.