About twenty minutes ago, the four month old boy fell asleep. I successfully transferred him off my lap and into his rocker.
Start the clock.
Use the bathroom (tick, tick, tick), read the small girl a book (tick, tick, tick), sing songs (tick, tick, tick), say prayers (tick, tick, tick), find her blanket (tick, tick, tick), change into pajamas myself (tick, tick, tick), no time to take off my makeup if I want to get started on my planner (tick, tick, tick), computer on lap (tick, tick, tick), open web browser (tick, tick, tick)...
...small human cries. Time's up.
My entire existence is a clock that runs around a tiny human; my waking is consumed by him, my sleeping depends upon his sleeping. There are, of course, joys beyond any kind of measure when it comes to being a mother. But there is also much to measure, and the biggest one right now is time. The runner up to time is energy.
I seem to be lacking in both as of late, and it bothers me. The more time goes by, the more frantic I become when I feel I'm accomplishing very little. I'm a 24 hour diner to a baby. The dairy cow. The burp rag. The diaper change'o'matic. The mattress, boxspring, and pillow. I also have three other children that depend on me, and I'm still a wife, and I still have a house that has to be cleaned, and bills that need to be paid...
...and suddenly I realize I haven't had a shower in five days. What is happening?
Tick, tick, tick.
