Running on empty

Sometimes I feel like I can do it all. Wife, mum, friend, lover, cook, cleaner, laundry-girl, schedule-keeper, banker, repairman. Oh, and then there's time for "me", whenever that is. Mostly "me" time is using her bathwater, after I put her down for bed, to shave my legs. Multitasking at its most glamorous. mmm.

Sometimes though, like this week, I feel like I'm at the end of my rope, and I'm dangling into that miserable stew of inadequacy and frustration. I don't know how I manage to do so much, try and look for a job again, help the mister build the new business and have anything left at the end of the day. He comes home, and I'm going to bed. Dinner's in the oven for him. Weekends are spent doing up the house, he takes the baby, I get to sleep in, then he goes to the gym later. No time to talk, catch up, hug. The day goes by in hourly-slots: naps, feeds, walks in the park, sorting out dinner. I manage to always look nice in jeans and shirts and boots, so that makes me feel more human, but otherwise, I am giving our little one everything I have, because her demands are endless.

Positivity keeps slipping through my fingers. Just when I think I manage to keep everyone happy and organised and above the water, I crash hard and can't seem to pick myself back up again quickly.

It's a cliche really, because all parents, working or non, experience this in one way or another. It's the desire to go above and beyond and make sure your family is right on track, and then you turn a corner and feel guilt for not doing everything perfectly, for having to keep going without any praise or help, for keeping a smile on your face through the rough stuff. The mister deals with the guilt of being away from home so much because of his job, and I deal with the guilt that I can't seem to give 100% to my daughter and 100% to my husband and 100% to myself.

I read the other day that the best way to problem solve is to write all of your worries and stresses each on strips of paper. Then you take each strip, ask yourself if it's something that you can solve now. If not, put it in a pile to the side. If you can deal with it now, then put it in a "to-do" pile. Once that pile is full, make a battle plan to deal with your worries.

Seems simple. But how do I deal with the worries that are more emotional rather than tangible? How do I stop looking over my shoulder and saying "what if I had done that better?", "what if I don't get a job?", "what if the mister and I lose touch with each other?".

Hmm. Well, stuff like that can be self-fulfilling in a way. The more I think about it, the more I'll dwell in the past, and the more of a vicious circle it'll become.

There's never going to be a black and white answer, I'm realising. The only pure thing at the moment is that I have a baby on my lap at the moment giving me the sweetest flirty smile, and just wants me to give her kisses and stroke her face. Her time with me is precious, and I can't spend it worrying about what will happen in a month's time.

Things fall into place, I just have to breathe and believe it. Refuel, as it were.

Watching.

I'm a voyeur.

I'm trying to capture every bit of my little wriggler during the day- with pictures, with film.. but sometimes I laugh because I would be infinitely making her a digital memory if I could. I have ot be honest, though- there aren't enough hours in the day, really, and I'd be missing out on these incredible moments if I had a recording device in front of my face.

I watch how she lulls herself to sleep in her cot, singing to herself.

I watch how she's grasping at things and shoving them in her mouth, as if to taste her entire new world.

I watch how intently she scans my face when I feed her, as if she wants to memorise every grey hair, every freckle, every smile line.

I watch how she swims in the bathtub and tries to talk to the rubber ducks bobbing up and down in front of her.

I watch how she looks at cartoons and giggles at the screen.

I watch her in spite of the fact that I need to rest, I need to do the laundry, the bottles, the dishwasher, the bills, the job-hunting, the cleaning.

And all this watching paid off, because right in front of me, at 3 months and 2 weeks, she turned herself onto her stomach and began to crawl. She did it with this desperately angry determination, this fiery stubbornness that she's inherited from I-have-no-idea-who. She did it despite our wood floors being slippery, despite not being able to grip her playgym mat. And though I was so close to helping her to rescue her from her cries of frustration, I sat on my hands and just cheered her on. And she did it. Again and again and again, her eyes glimmering with excitement through her angry grunts.

She knew that I was watching.


Oh, my heart.