Friday, April 16, 2010

It was just one of those weeks.

You finally feel like you have climbed to the top of your household to-do list--you're not necessarily ready to claim it in the name of your country, but at least now you can see the terrain and the way forward.

You have been able to enjoy your baby a little more because of this, though you know that your husband needs more of you, and care must be taken for him.

You are able to shake your head sardonically about the non-existence of magazines entitled "Fathering" or "Working Father," knowing that American society may never see the need for that sort of thing. At least it doesn't make you want to scream anymore. At least right now.

You even have a plan to climb out from underneath the crushing pile of debris that currently is your work to-do lists. You mean to tackle that on Monday.

Then come three nights of insomnia. You miss Monday, and when you come in on Tuesday, it's to overhear a conversation between two of your colleagues in which they are complaining about you. It's stuff you already know, but that doesn't mean you want to--or need to--hear it when they think you aren't listening. Now, your Grand Plan to fix those problems and get on top of your work life will seem responsive only to that conversation and not a personal initiative. It's less enjoyable and any satisfaction that comes from possible success will seem hollow and toadying.

You do it. Because it needs to be done, and you were going to do it anyway.

At home, you still are not writing or sewing or drawing, but you are getting some knitting and reading done on the bus. Plus, every night, once baby is in the bath, you have been doing the dishes, wiping the table, counter, and stove, getting the morning coffee ready for brewing, sweeping the floor, and filling the water filter pitcher. So at least you are not waking up to those undone dishes.

Baby has been sleeping better, only waking up once or--two nights in a row--not at all. He's not sick anymore, and he's happy. He says "mama" and "mommy," though you have no idea who taught him the latter.

Really, you have it pretty good.

It was just one of those weeks.

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