Spring has arrived in North Carolina. I’m aware it’s only February. I know that we could still get some vicious cold snaps in the next month. I don’t care. Spring is here.
Rowan slept through the night last night. This is not a drill. I repeat — Rowan slept through the night last night. This is the first time in many, many months that he has slept all the way through. On those occasions, my body was so used to waking up 29384029348 times in the night that I did not sleep well, anyhow.
I was thinking I hadn’t felt all that depressed this winter. Then I realized that everyone else is also depressed so I’m only less depressed by comparison. It’s difficult to wallow in this temporary darkness when we are all engulfed in an existential muck. We are all Artax and we’re walking through the Swamp of Sadness. Even the most optimistic among us are Atreyu, at best — doomed to keep up that grim determination lest The Nothing descend upon us all.
Christmas was good. Our Puppy Surprise tree worked out wonderfully. I wanted to write a whole Christmas poem about it but I didn’t because, ya know, reasons.
I don’t trust birth.
There. I said it.
I feel like I’m supposed to be a good little half-hippie, trusting birth and bodies and earthmothergoddessblahblahblah.
I finally, finally won the battle of the Christmas tree.
I recently wrote a piece for HuffPo about my general apathy for the prolonged Christmas season. The whole Christmas tree thing is slightly anxiety-producing on the best of years but this year, with a curious toddler who likes to climb things and I just was not feeling it.
Give a burned-out mother five minutes and a Google search bar and she’ll be told no fewer than a dozen times that she needs to practice some self-care. Self-care is seen as this magical cure-all for anxiety, stress, and all that bothers you in life. I’m pretty sure it cures athlete’s foot and eczema, too.