Progreesion without progress

I truly believe that there can be progression without progress. One Hundred Years of Solitude is proof of that. Like the characters in the book, I have often lived my life just going through the motions. Wake up at 5:00, go to the Y for and hour and half, take a shower, change diapers, fill juice cups, eggs, pancakes, sausage, fruit, kiss, kiss, kiss, school, homework, home, bills, dishes, dinner, play, diapers, laundry, organize, read...sleep. Each day. Excluding the school part 3 days of the week. I sympathize with Ursula. My children dictate my life mostly, for now anyhow. I have often sensed the silent hum that comes with repetition. I desire repetition. Order. I can control some things. Just like the Buendia family. Perhaps the repetition was their solace. To know what's coming next amidst all of the chaos. To set something in motion, and decide it's end. Isn't that what life really is? What is the point of existence? I watch my children, wandering the house on days when we don't go anywhere, waiting for me to invent something for them/us to do. These are the days when they usually get into the most trouble (like smearing peanut butter on the refrigerator)... If Idle hands are the devil's workshop, then maybe we're just all trying to keep busy so we can stay out of trouble. Biding time until the one in charge invents something for us to do. At the end of the day, I may not have had progress by definition of accomplishment, but there is definite progression. One small battle at a time (in this sense, life is an ongoing civil war, during which we sometimes forget the point of). I made it through the day. Time passes with or without my approval. I can never get those moments back. I wait. I pass the time. Life. One hundred years of experiencing this in solitude. If I get that far.

I'm not sure this is coherent.

Well, this concludes the homework part...My bambinos are jumping on my bed.
Time to play.