Allright, I confess: I used to schedule my morning in 5 minute blocks. And it worked. Oh my god I was so productive. (Qualifier: This was when I had one child, who was 8 and in school.) I had it down to the order in which I did my bathroom routine; it had to be like that. I can’t remember whether I stuck to it better when I was manic or depressed or sane, but there would be a point where the system would break down and I’d find myself saying “I am not a routine person. routines are stupid. we are not that kind of family” Except, I need to be that kind of person, says the mental health field, who think daily routines can lessen the frequency of bipolar mood swings.

My son asked last night what day it was. Thursday, I said. “It’s not Sunday?” No, Thursday. “So Papa’s not coming today?” He already, at almost 3, knows that on Sunday is when Papa comes to pick him up for breakfast. Routines.  The life skill I love to hate to learn.  The word tastes like burning on my tongue.  Except I’m not saying it, I’m thinking it and it still tastes like burning. Ick.

And yet. Routine. Routine will save you when you cannot think. The dinner list will bail you out when there’s a blank spot in your head and it’s six o’clock. It’s Tuesday. That means breakfast for dinner. We always have eggs and bread. My old pal google calendar will remind me to put the laundry in the dryer when the only thing on my mind is nothing, and I don’t realize that I’ve been looking at the cursor for an hour. Thursday: dinner in the crockpot, says Dinner List. Should be easy. Written mail day. FUCK. Christmas thank you note day. Which I blow off, as I’ve done every week since Christmas, because I AM NOT A ROUTINE KIND OF PERSON.

And so routine hasn’t been saving me, and my in-laws haven’t got their thank you notes even though their gifts were amazing. And my husband’s been putting dinner together every night since October when I lost my appetite, and errand day is whenever we need something, and I brush my hair like every 3 days.

I have a day like today every once in a while that looks pretty good, where a lot of laundry gets done, and the dishwasher is run and my dad delivers espresso. (which explains the first bit) And I start to roll that word around my mouth a little: routine. I think about where I would post my lists, (because there would be multiples) and how they would save me; how I would never go so far off the rails again. I’d be running, I’d be eating, I’d be  doing housework. There wouldn’t be times on the lists like back when I just had one kid because you have to allow for unscheduled play and compelling facebook links-but I’d get it all done, I’m sure of it. The word’s starting to taste a little better now. A little like…chocolate.