Pile up

It is 10.30pm and I am peeling play-dough from the surface of several books which I have found scattered on the stairs. It is the result of my absent-mindedly agreeing with Eden as I put the smaller two children to bed that it would be lovely if she could make me some 'cakes' in her 'cafe'. In a matter of minutes I find myself holding a book with a thin spreading of play-dough across its surface, pretending to eat it with one hand as I change Ava's nappy with the other. And a few hours later, as I continue my peeling, I consider again the life in which I discover myself, occasionally with a sense of surprise, sometimes a vague horror, more often than not a warm acceptance and comfort.
Today, I am in the mood to contemplate contentedly, to giggle at the state in which I find myself - as is so often the case. And it occurs to me that it is no wonder the number of 'guilt piles' I am stockpiling - the piles of photos still untransferred into albums; the piles of artwork delivered home by the children, still unsorted and waiting to be glued into scrapbooks; the piles of household paperwork, waiting to be filed; the piles of clean washing, tottering precariously on the stairs, on chairs in the children's bedrooms and just about anywhere you can imagine. The piles are like scurf; they litter my mind, but also they wash to and fro with the tides of my thoughts. If it is 10.30pm and I am peeling plasticine from the surface of books, if it is 10.30pm and I haven't yet sat down simply to relax, to watch some TV or to read a book... then really, is it any wonder? And I choose to let the tide go out again. I look down at the ball of plasticine in my hand and I hold my head back and I laugh.