That's how many I need. The 5 for the day job. 2 for relaxing. And one for the home job: cleaning, cooking, decorating, etc. But I have only 7 days. None of them are actually relaxing at this point because my house is a pit and despite a lifetime of being a disorganized, piggy person, I'm my mother's daughter after all and cannot stand to look at the mess. How do I avoid it? By confining myself to our television room because scattered baby toys aren't really mess. The oven is broken. There's seldom any real food in the house. And the DVR is upstairs - so why bother with the kitchen/great room? The "formal" dining area is still covered in Christmas crap and one used-once-so-far elliptical machine (like you didn't see that coming).
Nothing these days seems worth the effort. Maybe I need spring to arrive to warm my motivation. Maybe I need my child to be 4 and in pre school. I currently have, on my best days, free time between about 8 and 10pm. I do nothing productive with those two hours. Nothing, nada, ziltch.
Oh I dream of a week off. Screw that, I dream of an honest-to-god day off. One without the day job, without the child needing me, without pumping or breastfeeding or soothing or occupying. One in which I deep clean the house, organize things, clear out things. Then I have time to cook a week's worth of meals and still get to the gym for some cardio, maybe a yoga class. One in which I make it to the mall and Target to return things, to the post office to ship things, to sit and write thank you notes and love letters and hello letters and birthday cards. One in which a working oven slowly roasts a filling but healthy meal. And one in which I put on clothes like I give a shit, have any pride in my appearence, or any image worth salvaging. One with brunch and champagne. And a nap. And a mani/pedi.
I asked Rob last night if he thought we'd remember right now, clearly, in a year or in 25. Our crawling, cute, happy, exploring child. I can't remember the early months very well - and what I do remember isn't pretty. My mantra for the year has been "a person can do anything for a year," but I know it should be "a person can do anything for two to three years." I'm still wishing away her babyhood and I shouldn't do that. But I'm tired of treading water. So, so tired.
I can't help but wonder: am I just making it all more difficult than it needs to be? I imagine formula and CIO babies have parents with more time and happiness, but maybe not. Maybe they feel just as drowned as I do. It's nice to think they don't. It's nice to think some parents out there are having a ton of fun and still get to be grown-ups.