By Ana Veciana-Suarez

We find ourselves alone in the house on a weekend afternoon. The children and grandchildren have dispersed to the four corners of the neighborhood. Laundry is folded, dishes washed, house cleaned.

Hubby suggests a good movie. I agree. But before we settle in front of the TV, I race to collect the tidbit tasks I've been meaning to complete: sewing a button on a blouse, finishing the teenager's pants hem, giving myself a much-needed pedicure. I simply cannot imagine two hours without some kind of useful activity.

This drives Hubby batty. He cannot understand my ridiculous need to be productive every waking moment. He claims I don't know how to just "be."

"Relax," he commands. "It won't kill you."

But sometimes I act as if it could.

The kids, too, are flummoxed by my whirlwind activity and interminable to-do list.

They accuse me of subverting their well-deserved down time with requests and demands. Though they don't order me to relax, they do suggest I chill. Same concept, different generation.

I suspect the family will have this epitaph carved on my tombstone, more in irony than in admiration: "She's getting things done."

Not that I don't recognize my folly. I do, I do. Being productive has become more addiction than guiding mantra. It has helped me, a working mother, raise five children, ferry them to extracurricular activities and maintain a passably hygienic household. Nonstop activity has also provided structure, order and comfort to a life torn asunder time and again by death and dislocation.

That hardly makes me special. My friends are all doing more than they have ever done at home and at work. They've taken up meditation, Pilates and yoga to slow down and de-stress, and claim these stolen moments bring balance into their lives.

I understand. I, too, love my quiet time, the rare, unscheduled hours disconnected from reality, the moments put aside to putter and ponder, to follow thoughts where they lead. My best ideas are born once the beeping, binging, ringing, pinging stops. I grow more comfortable with myself. I open up.

And yet ... yet ... the pleasure is as laden with guilt as a second piece of chocolate. I indulge in hiding, looking over my shoulder, knowing I will pay for it later. In the end, the minutiae of life -- shopping, bill-paying, catching up with elderly relatives -- nag until I give in to their demands.

It's time to stop or, at the very least, to slow down. So here's the plan.

Once a day I will into stare into space without expectations. I will walk for a few minutes without destination. I will press the off buttons on every electronic gadget I own. I will jump off the double-time merry-go-round.

I will for sure, starting tomorrow.

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Parenting - Next on the To-Do List: Do Nothing