I am never without a notebook.
With a notebook at hand, and a decent writing utensil, I can amuse myself for hours, making lists, brainstorming project ideas, planning things. I keep a smallish, fattish notebook near me to prevent interruptions that would otherwise sidetrack me forty times a day. With a notebook, I can flip open a new page, jot a title in the upper right-hand corner, and get the Molly Flotsam out of my brain. Otherwise, the Flotsam tends to slosh around a lot, and I have to recite it all over and over to keep from forgetting important bits. Writing it down is much safer for all concerned.
If I’m annoyed, I can vent in the notebook and toss the page when I’m cooled down.
If I’m anxious, I can write out the realities of a situation, and come up with ways to deal with what is, rather than what my imagination can dream up.
If I have an epiphany (“Epiffy-what?”), I can jot it down before the travails of keeping up with the clean laundry distract me from the more important thoughts.
My notebook goes to church, and to the grocery store; to the playground, to the lake, to the back yard. It has divider tabs (usually one for work, one for ideas, and one for to-do) and little pockets to hold the detritus that would otherwise collect in my pockets and be destroyed in the wash.
As various bits are accomplished, I pull and toss the pages (which gives me a fun little task for those “waiting around” moments). I have used-up notebooks that are quite slim, with only a dozen or so pages left intact, because those projects haven’t been done, and those ideas are still marinating.
Today, I gave myself a present: not only did I start a spandy-new notebook (black plaid with a pink pinstripe in it), I invested in a lovely (if inexpensive) black ink pen, too.
I’m not sharing.
Being the Mom has it’s privileges.