I want the kind of house where everything has it’s place and you can walk in white socks on the floor and they’re still pristine hours later.
I have the kind of house where the laundry sits in the machine for long enough to need rewashing, and the tumbleweed of dog hair looks as though it might gain sentience at any moment.
If I think about it very much it stresses me out; decrepit horror movie faces float around declaring “unclean!” and “should!” and judging judging everywhere. The thing is I feel like I “should” keep a better house not because of external judgement – I actually feel pretty confident that most people are much too busy dealing with their own shit to judge mine (at least in theory anyway… maybe if they actually walked in here they’d be aghast and unable to refrain from judgement. But screw those people anyway.) – I feel like I should keep this better house because of what it would mean for me.
I would like it.
I love being in tidy organised spaces. They make my brain feel like it can soar and accomplish all its imaginings.
But the price of entry just feels too high.
Hell, the price of entry on a basically sanity abode feels too high some weeks. This might be one of those weeks.
I only actually worked 2 out of 5 days this week and yet by 4pm yesterday I was so tired I could barely function. We had to stop for tea and a snack after 5 minutes in the shopping center coz I didn’t feel like I’d enough energy to even determine whether we should go home at that point or not. Tea helped! Cake helped! But I was so cranky in the run up to it – my brain felt in a fog, my emotional reactions were closer to those of my children – actually they were more mature!
We got home, I left all adulting to my sainted husband, binged on candy, felt ill and crashed into sleep before the children.
Maybe you’re thinking “this is fine”. Maybe you’re thinking “we all have days like that” that I’m a bit sickly (cold, sinuses, poor sleep) and pregnant (not a medical condition, I’m informed) that I’m just back at work and still getting used to the shock to the system, but I’m worried, I have to say. What if this exhaustion continues over the next three months? And I’m pretty lucky to be even able to take maternity leave from the start of the third trimester – Jesus how do people do this?! I felt to sick and rotten over the first trimester to work and now in the supposed relative heaven of trimester two I’m already filthy and dripping with exhaustion, stress and anxiety.
The world seems chock full of stories about women who happily work from sperm-meets-egg to the day before they give a wholesome and smiling water birth in their immaculate homes. I want to call bullshit! and false advertising! on the whole shebang, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s me who’s the anomaly. I mean, it usually is, isn’t it?
I kind of just want permission to feel as crappy as I do though. I want someone to say something like “hey, this happens to a certain subset of pregnant women and it’s normal and it’s okay and you are doing the best you can and the world understands and doesn’t judge you.”
I actually think I am doing the best I can – and I rarely think that about myself. Which means it’s likely I’m even a bit overdoing it, but the thing is, I’m getting fucking nothing done! Or at least not enough, and if – at this supposedly happy blessed glowing stage – I can’t do enough, then what’s it going to look like in 4, 8, 10 weeks’ time (luckily in 12 weeks’ time I’ll be on leave so I don’t have to worry past then)?!
It actually terrifies me.
But we’re here and it’s now. That’s the advice to me when I start living in the fear of the future.
We’re here and it’s now and nothing is actively broken, despite the clutter and the dog hair and the horror-shoulds floating ’round me as I move through time and space.
What I get done this weekend will have to be enough. And if that’s not much more than resting and eating popcorn, I’m actually going to accept that. Like, not as a a precedent or a habit or anything. But for here and now.