I remember six months, give or take, after my second baby was born coming out of a fog. I hadn't really realized I had been in a fog....but the feeling I felt once it all lifted was amazing. I was more me. I had energy. I had hope. I had one heckuva messy house on my hands.
It's amazing the gunk that is hidden in the clouds of a fog. Like dust bunnies. And cobwebs. And moldy sippy cups under the sofa.
I resolved after that moment of realization to not allow myself to go there again. No excuses.
After baby number three, I braced myself for the cloud cover. But it never really came. Not like last time. I felt capable. I felt confident. I felt good. Until a few weeks ago. Something changed. Not a big change. A little change.
My lack of sleep started to catch up with me. My motivation for the small daily chores started to wane. The incessant talking of my wonderful four year old made me scream inside my mind. (I promise I'm not a crazy person. Really.)
Last night, I was doing some contemplating. Some contemplating life. My life. My kids' lives. It seems like just last week they were babies. They're not babies anymore. They're growing up. Fast. And while I'm muddling away in my melancholy, they are living out their childhood experience. And because I am such a dramatic freak of nature, I imagined them as adults, having coffee. My girl says to my boys, "Hey! Remember how much fun mom was when we were growing up?" and my boys say, "No." and my girl says, "Me, neither."
At which point reality smacks me across the soul and I make up my mind to suck it up. Get over myself. Start having some fun. Fun that isn't spelled: h-o-w-a-b-o-u-t-y-o-u-g-u-y-s-g-o-a-n-d-p-l-a-y-i-n-y-o-u-r-r-o-o-m-s-?
It's sort of amazing. Because I started faking it today, and just a few minutes in, it wasn't fake anymore.