Morning Tea.

So, I'm writing a book.  To my ears, or eyes, that sentence tickles the feet of the absurd.  It isn't that books shouldn't be written, or that anyone else deigns to do it.  It's that I would.  Shouldn't I be making better use of my time?

I was reminded of the various other occupations that could or should distract me from my ridiculous pursuit today, at morning tea.

First, I'm still not entirely sure what morning tea is intended to be.  I don't think it's breakfast.  It seems to be an opportunity to supplement the morning meal with a pastry, scone or cake.  Since I'm always perplexed about the proper amount of food to eat at tea, and I'm genetically predisposed to be thin yet convinced that I'm otherwise, I didn't eat at this morning's morning tea.  Unfortunately, I'd also skipped breakfast because it was the only way I could get out of the house before 10.  My report, therefore, may be colored by my poor, neglected hunger.  She growled for attention, but I put her in the corner.

I arrived late, despite the malnourishment.  I joined the ladies who tea instead of lunch and as I scanned the room, I realized that a dozen of the fifteen of us had babies or would be joined imminently by a wee one.  A place was kindly made for me at the table and I approached, tripping first on a plastic fire truck and second on a small, red shovel.  I sat, wisely inspecting my seat and removing a tiny airplane from the chair before letting my ass descend.  I congratulated myself for my foresight.  A child drove a blue car over my foot several times before I could introduce myself to his mother.

The kids played and the mothers talked.  Babies were fed and changed, passed and put down.  The mothers were remarkable for their calm comfort and their contented exchange of maternal secrets.  These woman are important, I thought.  They're raising the inhabitants of the world.  Good for them.  I wiped my face after a child sneezed at me and watched another cram a fist-sized wad of napkin into her mouth.

Here's the part where I started to question my personal commitments.  I was asked, as I always am, about my own kids.  "At kindy?"  Nope.  I keep them in the boot of the car, I could have said.  But that would be crude.  "No kids," I confessed.  "Working, then?"  Nope.  I'm writing a book.

Dragon sale.

Okay, see how that should have been a joke?  The funny punchline is that I am.  Writing a book.  

I was quick to point out that my mission was only to finish it, give it a read, stuff it into a drawer and check the job openings at the library, but that's not really what I want.  I do want to finish the book.  I don't want to work.  (I wouldn't mind, however, seeing my book in a library someday.)  What I'd prefer to do is just live and feel occasionally important for random contributions that don't require so much responsibility.  That makes me happy now.  I'm pretty sure it could sustain me.

So, why does that feel so absurd?