“I know it’s only 9am, but can I have a do over?”
We ask this when our days spin out of our control and we haven’t even managed to feed everyone breakfast. We beg for this on the days when we can’t understand how every side of the bed can be the wrong side, when our skin aches from the internal pressure that is simmering as we try to keep the lid on.
I figured the time around Rowan’s birthday would throw some hard days my way, as memories were dredged up and pushed to the front of my brain in a way they haven’t been in a while. I expected moments of sadness over everything surrounding his birth and the time after — the bittersweet joy of his first birthday.
My relationship status with nostalgia apps like Timehop and Facebook’s On This Day is, “it’s complicated.”
Remember how I got all empowered by my own selfishness and self preservation last week? I proclaimed my lack of fucks to give. I reclaimed my rope! I cleaned and organized and made sense of the chaos.
I’m happy. That’s an unexpected feeling these days. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not constantly sad, I don’t think I’m depressed, and I’m not Rhiannon-downer. What I am is overwhelmed, at the end of my rope, and generally one step away from the edge of done. I’m drowning in that sea of obligation, and not doing anything particularly well.
Sometimes I feel like I’m on a roller coaster without a safety bar. I spent part of this week in complete freak-out mode because Rowan is going to be a year old, but he should only be ten months old, and all of the feelings I’ve avoided so well for the last few months have been threatening to send this car plunging. I’m keeping my hands and feet inside the ride and holding on tight.
She wanted a Honey I Shrunk the Kids birthday party.
I made giant decorations. Baked the cake. Prepped and planned. The weather was beautiful; an early April day perfect for kiddie pools and bathing suits. I was 29 weeks pregnant.