This is the first weekend in months that I haven’t felt like I need to be doing anything. And funny enough, that meant being more productive. Not productive on the nesting front, but in the photo and blog portion of my life that has been grossly neglected. I may even design a new header tonight (update: done and done). Shocking!
Let’s talk about a little concept called Time to Myself. I have two months left of that. Time to stare at the wall or the sun on the curtains. Time to space out on the balcony. Hours to nap on the couch until my hips become sore and I move to the bed. Afternoons to just think about what kind of plants might possibly live on my balcony. I want a bunch of lavender, rosemary, and moon flowers so that it smells amazing out there.
I can go on extended shopping trips alone. There is no one to look after, to feed, to change, to entertain. I can hop in the car without looking like I’m headed on a three-day infant camping trip. No bags beyond my trusty Michael Kors, that will soon be traded for a JJ Cole.
I can keep the house clean without much effort. Do only a couple of loads of laundry a week, and take out the trash without worrying about carrying a baby on the other hip. I can read a book without interruption, take a bath for so loooooonnnng that I nearly fall asleep, and eat ice cream before bed without guilt about cheating on the post-baby diet.
If I could sleep in, oh I certainly would. But 5:30 is the new wake up time apparently. I can get ready for work at my own pace, waddle to the train without guilt about leaving anyone behind, and then talk to grown ups for the whole day. I wear mascara everyday, and would never leave the house in pajama pants. I can eat lunch downtown with friends, and wander the stores without worrying about a stroller getting through the racks or finding for a bathroom that has a changing station.
But here is the thing. Even though I will lose many of the personal luxuries listed above in just two short months, I can’t stop wanting that moment to come. I want everything that comes with being a parent. I want the good, the bad, and the ugly. I want a growing family. I want to worry about holding hands when crossing the street, bedtime stories, and skinned knees. I want the late nights, and early mornings, the sick days with sprite on the couch, and pumpkin carving. I want Legos. I want Cheerios stuck to my shirt and gum in my hair. I want to teach and I want to learn. I want to take my baby to new places, see the world for the first time through new eyes, wonder what it is like to pet a kitty for the first time. I want to watch Justin teach Baby B to swim. I want to watch Finding Nemo for the 6 bajiillionth time. People, I want spit up on my new blouse and an exploded diaper in my Moby wrap.
If you haven’t felt anything like this, then congratulations on missing the crazy boat. Please sleep in and have an extra long brunch and then wander your neighborhood. Seriously. Because that is sweet stuff. And because once you find yourself with the baby fever, you will be craving onesies and organizing your changing station on a Friday night before you know it.
You will have to excuse me now, but a certain someone is kicking my ribs because I can only assume he wants ice cream. And I love fat baby thighs, so he is getting what he wants.
Here is some lazy afternoon DPH from the Boley house. Complete with a 20 second video of some sun flickering on a wall. I won’t mention how long I actually stared at that by myself.