I felt the urge to write today. It's 3:54 and I've been home for 15 minutes. In those 15 minutes, I've attempted to settle Claire in for a late afternoon nap, sorted the mail, let the dog out, started the dryer, emptied bottles and arranged them carefully on the top row of the dishwasher. I should change clothes and prepare for dinner, should tackle the bulging file folders in my school bag, should dig out coupons for the shopping trip I need to tackle when Jeff gets home, should start the myriad of small tasks associated with my sister's upcoming bridal shower and bachelorette party this weekend.
I should do all of my shoulds in the 15 minutes that follow this moment and the 15 minutes that follow that.
But I need to write.
I haven't blogged since I went back to school, though it's been on my list of things to do. I have a notepad scrawled with possible titles, jotted down as life and emotions hit. I blog in my head often, though those internal writings read more like a strand of Facebook status updates: "Some mornings, opening the car door in the school parking lot is the biggest challenge of the day" or "At times, I feel like the babysitter, not the mom" or "It's an odd, out-of-body-feeling opening your birthday presents with your daughter watching" or "I'm tired of poop. The literal, the metaphoric, the dog and the baby. My life is full of poop!" Part of the reason for "all quiet on the blog front" (Holy literary allusion!) is a packed schedule and overloaded brain but I have a feeling the silence is a little more complicated than that.
Perhaps it's that I don't want to read my thoughts or see my emotions so starkly placed in print.
Because putting them down - and out there - means acknowledging them fully. Sometimes that list of things to do is a convenient cover for the quiet heart tugs of the day -
I hate that my sitter (I hate that word) is the one to tell me what Claire is now doing in her day.
I died as I picked her up today and saw her become a little unnerved when I put her in the carseat. Died even more when her sitter's hand calmed her and not my own.
I feel a bit undone by the sweet picture my sitter's son made for Claire. Its bright flowers and message scrawled by five-year-old hands point to a life for Claire I don't know fully. I love her full face smile and her obvious delight in the day she shares with my sitter's children but I'm torn by the mystery that is my child's day.
I am happy when she visits morning library hour - yet my stomach wrenches each time I see that notation in the day's planner and imagine her eager little head and clapping hands, her bouncing bottom keeping time on someone else's lap.
I hate the up and down feelings that come in those first 15 minutes at home as I trade the world of teaching for the world of Mom.
I love our mornings, cuddled in bed, playing in the high chair, wrestling with clothes. 4:30-7 is a whirlwind of Mommy and Daddy and Baby time. I love the afternoons, witnessing the enthusiastic Baby and Dog reunion, playing on the floor, patting our way through books. I love the evenings, splashing at bathtime, rocking with the final bottle, relishing the sweet, drift-off-to-sleep-in-footy-pajamas-bedtime.
But I miss our days.
I think that's what pulls at my heart, what I've most avoided putting in print.
There's so much good in our life and I'm thankful for those blessings. Our daughter is growing and happy and active and confident and sweet and funny - really funny. We're making new memories each day as a family - and learning what it is to be a family. Life is really better than we could have ever imagined.
It's just that my heart plays tug-of-war a lot. Maybe that's what being a parent is all about?
It's now 4:35. My 15 minutes are way past up. There's a little girl upstairs who decided the afternoon nap wasn't for her. And we have a whole day to catch up on.
Glad I had a chance to write - here's hoping that I make it back to blog land soon. It feels pretty good here, typing away at the kitchen counter.
