Another week has flown past and another weekend barely registered as a blip as it passed.

Again, no blogging or writing or meditation time took place over the weekend. This isn’t great, I think, and it’s probably time to put some measures in place to reclaim a tiny self-space in the days of the weekend. The fact that the children are home and we usually have family stuff or peopling stuff planned is all the more reason to dig out that little bit of space, not less of one.

It’s not as if I don’t have the time – I do – I just don’t have the inclination. I’d rather spend an hour judging strangers on the internet, or ploughing through historical planning applications attempting to glean some insight into their decision-making process, or obsessing about symptoms real or imagined. I’d rather waste my life, it seems.

That’s fairly damning. I guess I’m not learning anything.

Well, look, I’m approaching (and presumably going to hit) the 30 days of blogging (albeit not consecutive) that I’ve stuck in my head as a personal milestone to shake things up. Do you think that might be the kick up the rear I’ve been needing. I just hope so, but I worry it’s yet another marker of excusable procrastination. I suppose we’ll see! How exciting for all of you who read here!

On another (not sure if it’s related to anything or not yet) note…

We’ve got tentative plans for our first foreign vacation next Spring. About 6 weeks after Bubble will be born, so not the optimal timing in my mind, but there are external constraints about which I can do very little. My mother is turning 70 next year and she’s had long-standing plans for all her children and as many grandchildren as possible to make it to France for a combined holiday and to celebrate together. We went to Amsterdam for her 60th, and ten years has made a substantiate difference to how footloose and fancy-free (or not!) we all are.

Anyway, France is not too far, right? Except there’s no way I’m facing a flight with two 6-year-olds and a 6-week-old and all the luggage that entails. Another consideration is cost. Yet another is the fact that Bubble will not yet have had her vaccinations and airplanes are a veritable petri dish of colds and flus and other stuff.

I mean, I know people do this kind of thing all the time, but I’m still feeling pretty nervous about it.

So, our plan is to get the ferry. Fine, but the location my mother’s picked is St. Maxime which is all the way over the other side of the country.

At moments like this when my anxiety is flaring a little, it all seems insurmountable – too many small things to consider, too many unknowns and potential complications – and part of me just really feels like saying “I’m just not going to go.”

I know people would understand. I know it would be fine. And it will be fine to go too. I just feel like it’s too scary right now.

Also, it’s a little bit going to make me want to drink. I can feel the desire already for post-birth and the long days and nights of managing with a small child who’s utterly dependent on you and all of your personality and desires being subsumed by this one overwhelming task to take care of this new tiny person … already with that alone, the desire to turn to a glass of port in the evening to “take the edge off” is sneaking its nose above the parapet.

Now add in a three day journey across France, through Bordeaux and other beautiful regions – a journey I long imagined in years past when I lived in France as this wonderful, carefree (but adult) exploration of a country mainly through its wine. I have this image, you see, and it’s deeply ingrained and I’d always hoped I’d eventually get to make such a trip.

Not that I’d planned it with two small children and an infant in tow.

But that’s neither here nor there. I suppose that as I approach (and will have passed) the two year mark of being alcohol-free, there’s a part of my brain (and it’s getting louder) asking if I really need to be. Couldn’t I now just drink the way my husband does – like having 1 – 4 drinks on 3 – 5 occasions a year. I mean, that would be fine, wouldn’t it?

A fine amount of poison to allow my body.