I am tired. Not the kind of tired that sitting on the couch and catching my breath will fix, but a drained kind of tired that I’m not quite sure how to shake.
It’s the kind of tired caused by worrying about money, and the happiness and health (swine flu, anyone?) of my family and the quality and quantity of my work and the state of my house (It’s never a good day when you’re waiting for a plumber to arrive. Trust me on this.) and any number of other sources of stress that can creep in and sap energy stores.
Seems like someone is always wailing at me about this or that or demanding that I give them something (milk or a new diaper or cheese pasta or clean clothes undivided attention or that superhero toy that was left upstairs, waaaaah! I know, right?!).
I’m irritable. I snapped at my husband last weekend after he so thoughtfully took Beans out so I could work.
“Did you get much done?” he innocently inquired when he returned after six hours of browsing at the comic book store, playing at Grandma’s and whatever else they found to entertain themselves.
“No!” was my emphatic answer.
I had tried in vain all day to write something, but Tallulah was not amused by my tapping on the computer keyboard and insisted on other activities for most of the time they were away. But still, I do much of my work after both kids are in bed, which means I get started around 10:30 p.m. and work until … I don’t know. The wee hours. Getting a chance to work during the day is always welcome, so I suppose I should have been more grateful.
I’m tempted to chalk all these icky feelings up to postpartum depression (Tallulah is 3 months old, so it’s possible, right?), but that doesn’t seem quite right. I do feel happiness. I laugh with (and at) my kids — and at myself, especially my trek to an assignment in mismatched shoes a couple of weekends ago. (One black, one brown. Seriously. And I didn’t even notice until I picked up my shoes to return them to my closet at the end of the day.)
I just … don’t feel like myself. My usual self would say, OK, so you’re worried about this or that. What are you going to do about it? And then I would do something, or at the very least I would convince myself that worrying about it was OK and just stuff that in a pocket and move forward.
Maybe it’s hormones, maybe it’s that I haven’t taken any time out lately to just to have fun or maybe it’s just plain lack of sleep (courtesy, in part, of Tallulah), but I feel almost paralyzed, like I’m watching life whoosh by and I just can’t seem to reach out and grab it before it’s out of sight.
I’ve got some fun things planned in the next week or two, and I’m looking forward to doing them. I think I need to do them. Right now, I’m going to go play monsters with Beans. I’ll scream, he’ll laugh. Then he’ll scream, and I’ll laugh. It’s a game guaranteed to lift the spirits. ; )