It keeps coming into my mind. This odd word, with unknown origin. A term I rarely use.

And now I’m beginning to think that I do not possess its quality in the least.

It’s the daily challenges that seem to get me most. That post-work hour when dinner hasn’t been prepared, Jeb’s homework has not been done, the sun is going down and everyone at home is tired and hungry.

It’s right about this prime time when cranky is most likely to crack me that I find the Bohemian exuding utter calm. And not in some self-righteous way. Not in some laze-about “what?-just-chill-out” way that would send him relaxing on the couch while I’m still wrestling pasta on the stove.

No, it’s in this whistle-while-you-work way, that usually has him humming at the sink, washing dishes or tidying the house. Between domestic chores, he’ll peek over at me in all my fluster and smile – some sort of subtle SOS flagging me to bring it down a notch. In one soft look he’ll remind me that nothing is such a big deal – even 27 Reading Mastery sentences due tomorrow.

Good god. I’ve been seen. And now the truth is out:  I am so far from perfect.

As he skims about the house on some sort of tranquil cloud, the word just blinks in my mind like a flashing roadside sign. It makes me want to slow my 90 mph speed, park my sports car and ponder.


It seems impossible to make this man flap.

Where I, on the other hand, seem to be like some tarp unleashed, flailing in gale-force winds, tethered only by one corner about to spiral off into a storm of Oz proportions. In the mellow reflection of my beloved, I am realizing a truth about myself I did not see before: I am, quite certainly, flappable.

courtesy of Mark Heathcote

Oh, I can get the job done. That pasta on the stove will be reckoned with and served. We’ll get that Reading Mastery completed. I’ll even cross a few more items off of my to-do list and probably get some laundry folded (ok, maybe not yet put away). But am I doing it with grace and ease?

Once in a while I’ll hit a magic stride, though usually the winds have died down to a breeze my tarp can handle. Give me extreme crisis and I find myself tapped into some sort of emergency calm.

But the daily demands…they still seem to flap me.

And the Bohemian, well, he’ll just be whistling Jingle Bells (I kid you not), sweeping the floor and smiling.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s