Just More Questions; Different Kind

I'm not officially Catholic--or likely to become so--although as I told my husband the other day, I think I am genetically. The Irish is strong in this one, to paraphrase Darth Vader, and the long-suffering guilt of Catholicism steeps my DNA like a warm, insistent, soul-crushing lavage. Not that I'm complaining.

Or maybe I am. The phrase bucking for sainthood keeps coming to mind as I contemplate my current situation. From spontaneously agreeing to watch the neighbor's dog for the weekend to doing laundry for four adults (I volunteered) to redoing the dishes (not voluntary but necessary) to keeping the details of four lives in my head in order to organize a smoother existence (as much for me as for anyone), I sometimes wonder why I'm doing any of it. What if I didn't? What if I stopped?

I suspect it wouldn't make much difference, other than that the ensuing, low-level chaos would drive me crazy. So how can I be a saint to do it all if I'm really doing it for myself?

I'm not a saint. And I don't want to be a domestic engineer, either. I'm not even good at it--just have a look at the pile of cat hair collecting by the bookcase.

And I am tired of being called defensive; I am tired, too, of being the nag who insists people do what they know they ought to do. There are no children in my house.

I think I need to adjust my attitude... Trouble is, I don't know what sort of adjustment to make.