Life Unfinished

Stressed. And anxious.

 Why so anxious? To get this thing done so I can do the next thing of course.

 And I only have so much time because there's work that takes up all the daylight hours and I just don't have any time before or after that between making lunch and picking up the kid from daycare. You don't understand, if I can just get this thing done then I can...

 I realized something a long time ago and I'm still trying to absorb it - that I will go to my grave with a to-do list as long as my arm. That's just how it works. If you didn't always have a bunch of stuff to do, what would you do? On my way home from work, I sometimes drive by a particular house.  When the weather is nice, I see an old man out on the front porch of this house, just sitting. He doesn't seem feeble and the view of the road with commuters going by certainly isn't pleasant. Every time I see him, I wonder if he's at peace with himself or if he's just run out of things to do. Usually I conclude the latter.

 It's easy (very easy, in fact) to become so engaged in knocking out the items on your to-do list that you can lose sight of what life is in the first place. When was the last time you genuinely enjoyed one of your daily, routine tasks? I know, me neither. You and I, we're both working so fiercely to work through the (daily|monthly|five year plan) list, we don't consider what's on the other side. We forget that life is a continuous, holistic experience.

Instead of slogging through our list of chores, what if we occasionally, deliberately, injected something we enjoyed? Better yet, what if we slowly removed the unpleasant activities and replaced them with more enjoyable ones, including a few moments to just relax on the back deck, just sitting, or better yet in a hammock under new spring buds?

Mommy Politics

I could spend all day listening to the diverse reactions of parents toward their children, from the first daycare drop-off to when to stop breast-feeding to the decision to have multiple kids.  When talking with other moms, I feel so awkward, so un-nurturing.  Neither my husband nor I fell in love with our son at first sight, or six months later.  He was a stranger, one we created, but still a stranger.  We did, however, do everything possible to care for him and cuddle with him.  Nor did I cry after dropping a then eight-week old Stinkbug off at the daycare.  I ran away whooping and joyfully clicking my heels.  Announcing these two things in a room of mothers can make the conversation halt quicker than asking women their ages and weights.

Then there's the question if we want more children.  We are fairly quick with our resounding 'NO.'  Not that we don't love Stinkbug now, but we are quite content with one, thankyouverymuch.  We already have one child that spent the first six months spitting up my milk on everything and everyone, that sleeps far less than we do, and that makes my cat jealous with the amount of cuddling he desires.  Even after this, nearly everybody from the checkout lady at the grocery store to the ancient Greek man who runs the snowball stand--everybody except our parents--has explained to us how we should have more children in such obvious and simplistic terms as if explaining the necessity for food or water or AC.  I've heard all of the reasons, so that's when we are usually forced to pull out the big guns to make them stop.  My Stinkbug ripped me asunder, leaving my husband and doctors scared for my health if I should ever have another.  And there you go; that makes them stop.  Not that we are simply happier with one, that we can offer him the world while still fulfilling our dreams.  No, but the reason of my health.

Then again, maybe it's not the concern for my health that halts the incessant questioning, maybe it's the talk about my ladyhood.  As I said before, I always love to see the reaction.