An interesting time

I'm licking the frosting off my doughnut wrapper and thinking this is what desperation tastes like. Pregnancy has turned me into Homer Simpson. I would do nearly anything to obtain my daily doughnut, because it seems to be what gets me through the day.

In the process of trying to make life better I keep making life worse, at least for myself. Is this what parenting is? Is this what living is?

There's no time for anything. In fact, I don't have time to make this blog post, but I am, because I'm a stupid twat. That's the essence of the problem--every time I take something for myself, it's a bad idea because it's at the expense of something important, like one of my jobs, or my family members, or my home, etc.

It's rough when the guilt you feel for "me time" is justifiable. It's not just the "I'm being too hard on myself" guilt. I've worked myself into a tiny corner, and now I have to figure out how to live here. The word "sacrifice" bounces regularly through my head, and my opinion on it varies.

Our home finally goes up for sale today. Fletcher is starting daycare next week. This week, I need to get to the doctor to pick up his daycare paperwork, to the pharmacy to get his epi pen, and to the clinic for his allergy blood draw (fun). I need to coordinate around Andy's work training. I'm completely out of personal time at work, so every minute off the clock takes away from my maternity leave. I have a huge editing project due in two weeks that I've barely started. I have another prenatal doctor appointment tomorrow. And every other fricking day there's another therapy session, evaluation, or meeting regarding Fletcher's speech delay.

So, yeah. The good news is that Fletcher is starting to talk a little. He remains the bright shining light that illuminates my tiny corner. His favorite thing to say lately is "fell down." So he (and all his toys) regularly fall down. It's like living with a drunk.

His favorite foods right now are ice cream (cream!), cookies (coo-kie!), poptarts (tart!) and golden crisp/honey smacks (cereal!). Mac 'n cheese (noodle!) and apples are also popular. He says open (owen), mommy, daddy, blankie, play, sock, shoes, coat, in, out, no no no, no way, milk, up up up, toot, burp, car, tractor, plane, flower, ball, run, water, tree, stick, lion king, and several animals--his favorites being turtle, cow, bunny, monkey, sheep, horse, pig, duck, and kitty. Other words we've heard include "thank you" (although he says it when he expects you to say it to him), farm, grandma, movie, sweep, orange, apple, arm, ear, nose, hair, eyes, teeth, belly, toes, foot, sand, home, push, pull, santa, baby, diaper, pretzel, toast, corn, fries, sit, guitar, roar, light, stool, clean, dirty, wipe, where are you, remote (ote), mine, turn, set go (won't say "ready" though), icky, ni-night, sky, pillow, uh-oh, sun, spoon, refill, kick, high-ya!, happy, sad, ow, cord, meow, moo, bzzzz....sting, and I can't think of the rest but there's a lot. He might say "I'll get it" or "I got it," I'm not sure.

My goal is to get him to the point, soon, where I can ask him a question that isn't "yes or no" and he answers. Right now, if you ask him if he wants this or that, he just whines.

We're on the edge of many changes. With no cover on his doorknob anymore (for potty training purposes), Fletcher has the most freedom he's ever had. Next week, he will for the first time in his life spend a few hours without any family members. Andy's work hours are changing. We may have showings coming up soon and if we're lucky, we'll be moving. And oh yeah, there's a squirmy baby inside me that we have no clue how we're going to fit into our schedule.

It's an interesting time.

I'm too tired not to be lazy

I don't know if I'm lazy or not. The true answer is probably sometimes.

Regarding my home, I'm suddenly out of time to do everything that needed doing. A potential buyer is coming tomorrow and we aren't ready. It isn't just the basics (like picking up toys and cleaning the counters) that aren't done. Major gardening that should've been started in spring (and maintained) never was. Now it's too late and we have no choice but to be the house with more weeds than grass.

I haven't hung that shelf. The windows haven't been washed since we moved in. If the realtor opens any closet doors, he runs the risk of a booby-trap-style collapse of the excess that I haphazardly stashed away. I haven't deep cleaned the kitty litter pans.

It would be a fantastic feeling to catch up on all of this and have a beautiful, clean home. So why wasn't it on my top priorities before now, when it's too late? When I look at my priorities, I feel guilty. I'm a good mom, but I'm capable of more. I could do a better job of juggling.

I can only assume the price would be even more fatigue, and I'm just so damn tired all the time as it is. I can't concentrate on anything. I get headaches. My energy level is only mediocre.

But I could stay up past the toddler's bedtime every night and do at least one extra household-y thing (in addition to picking up the toys, washing baby dishes, sometimes scooping kitty litter, and getting ready for bed).

Would it be worth it?

grandma and grandpa's house

Houses are powered by memories. As my husband scrolls through home-for-sale listings, I wonder what memories my son will have, what details will matter to him, and how I can make for him a home that comforts. A home for love.

It's close to a decade since my grandparents were forced by failing health to move to a retirement facility. I lost my grandfather, I may be losing my grandmother, and I find that I miss their old house, more even than I miss the house I grew up in.

It was a warm house with a small kitchen, dish rags hanging from wall-mounted rails, the cookie jar of windmill cookies, a vinyl tablecloth with scotch tape over any cuts, pine cupboards storing well-worn white Tupperware that Grandma had washed by hand thousands of times. It smelled of roasted meat and dish soap.

Grandpa would sit at the table, a small TV playing the news or Matlock or The Bold and The Beautiful. He'd wear thin, white undershirts, gray chest hair showing over the collar, and play solitaire with faded cards. I'd sit on a chair, on my feet, and hope that Grandma was making macaroni and cheese instead of gross vegetables.

I can barely stand how much I miss it. The people, their voices. The room and its smells.

Grandma would read with me, watch Mr. Rodgers, sing "You Are My Sunshine," push me on the swing set outside, play gin and king's corners and old maid. I'd trail after her to the basement to watch her move undershirts and old handkerchiefs from the washer to the dryer, and peek through the small basement windows where I could just see Grandpa planting red geraniums along the house.

I have an anti-photographic memory. I can't really bring faces to mind, not even my husband's when he's sitting next to me. But I can see my grandparents' house, the red berries that fell from the tree over their sidewalk, the jewelry box on my grandmother's dresser, the linen curtains, the gold flowered wallpaper on the bathroom walls. I remember the starchy, powdery detergent smell from Grandma's closet, the sound of the spare refrigerator humming to life, the mirror shelf on the living room wall where stood an artificial rosebud in a slender vase.

Little changed in their house, I could count on that. But now I'll never be there, with them, ever again.

I grieve for the loss of it. There is nothing that can last forever. Places, things, people, even memories. All of it is impermanent, all but love.