Five weeks after the baby was born, the angst has begun to settle in. No, not about the baby himself … he is a wonder, a perfect jewel, an armful of delight. But rather about my life. In short, where am I going, and what am I doing in this handbasket?
My days are full, but they are full of the menial, the renewable chores, the very everydayness of it all. I get up, change the baby, feed the baby, change the toddler, feed the toddler, feed myself (maybe), put the baby down, play with the toddler, feed him snack, rack my brains for something educational or crafty to do with the toddler (I’ve got a few — watch this space in the next few days for what we’ve been doing), do that, clean up after ourselves, throw another load of laundry in, load the dishwasher, play trucks with the toddler, change the baby, feed the baby, change the baby, make goo-goo eyes at the baby while playing with the toddler, feed the baby while reading to the toddler (not enough hands for that one, let me tell you!), feed the toddler while walking with the baby, talk to the baby AND the toddler, put the baby down, put the toddler down, breathe.
And then it’s noon.
An hour or two later, we start again.
I’ve finished my proposal. I’m waiting for the contract with Big Company to be finalized. So I do have outside work on the horizon. But it’s not here yet, so I’m responsible to no one but myself and my three boys. Again, four if you count the dog. Which I should except he gets very little attention right now, to my shame.
The house is largely clean. By that I mean, it’s picked up. But it’s starting to get on my nerves. It’s overstuffed.
Perhaps it’s the clothes. In my closets are clothes from my pregnancy, before my pregnancy, between my pregnancies, from my first pregnancy (these are dressier), and from the days when I worked outside the home. Those were fancier. I can’t bring myself to get rid of all of them, because they’re gorgeous, but who wears a silk suit on a playdate?
Perhaps it’s the books. We have shelves upon shelves and bookshelf upon bookshelf of books. We love books. We love reading books, and we love having books. And we love having books that no one else is reading and you can’t even find in the secondhand shops anymore. I’m a big fan of sci-fi from the 50’s, for instance. I also have a ton of feminist writings. Big shock? Not really. But they’re old friends, and I’m not getting rid of them yet.
Perhaps it’s the toys. Naah. The toys are fun. I love the toys. I love the very brightness of them, the joy that primary colors bring to our otherwise decently decorated home. Red, blue, and yellow. So happy and cheery looking. Even the furniture is happy.
Perhaps it’s just me.