It’s 11:13 in the am here in the Rocky Mountain empire, and I have showered, blown out my hair, read 12 board books aloud (including Dora’s optional Espanol commentary on the Three Little Pigs), written one overdue article and fed my supremely attention-lavished toddler a fully balanced lunch including hummus. And two different kinds of vegetables. Which are now on the floor beneath his high chair…because you never know, he might want them later.
p.s. Lunch was at 10 am. I am a ravenous gestation machine and the exterior baby doesn’t mind one bit when mommy happily chirps ‘time to eat!’ and pulls ranch dressing out of the fridge before noon.
The good news of an early lunchtime is it is usuallybutnotalways followed by an early naptime. The bad news: an early wakeup from naptime. Sooooo, I’ve stolen from Peter to pay Paul, and I know Paul is totally going to bang down my door at 2pm and demand restitution in the form of ohGodit’s3hourstillDavemightevenTHINKaboutleavingworkandIhavenostrengthlefttofinishthisday…
But I digress.
The thing is, I gave up ‘social media’ as one of my Lenten sacrifices, which is basically a euphamism for stalking friends and distant acquaintances on Facebook in between frantic rounds of Pinterest maintenance. (You know, Pinterest, the online fantasy world where you are a competent, impeccably-accessorized mother who makes homemade sidewalk chalk and feeds her offspring according to strict Paleodiet standards. And own a 3 million dollar beach house decorated exclusively by Williams Sonoma.)
So with all this unprecedented ‘bonus time’ on my hands, (read: time I’ve been checked out of reality) it seems I’m actually quite able to check my way through most-if not all-of the ‘ol daily To Do. Shocking, really. Especially coupled with my involuntary coffee fast. (coffee without cream is a fathomless void of disappointment which I cannot tolerate in my mouth.)
The truth is, I have apparently ALL the time I need in my day to accomplish each and every little item I’ve been tasked with as wife/mother/editor/freelance writer/exercise aficionado. And the only thing keeping me from my appointed rounds all these months has been…me.
I love Lent for its ability to provide a kind of spiritual ‘do over’ for the year, for the chance to turn a new leaf over and inspect it in the gentler, brighter light of spring rather than the harsh, hung-over glow of New Year’s Day.
Yes, everything outside is mostly still dead and it’s cold and sometimes gray, (not here in D-town, mind you, but I’ve heard tell of overcast skies in flyover country) but even as the Church waits in repentant, alleluia-less anticipation for the death and resurrection of Her Groom, Jesus Christ, there is a tangible undercurrent of relief, a feeling that at last we’ve collectively pulled up our bootstraps and started in the right direction.
Or maybe that’s just the way I feel, having slogged through January and February on nothing but halfhearted resolutions and poorly-executed attempts at organization.
On a closing note, may I just share with the world that yesterday, at 8 months pregnant, I had something of a highlight experience in my personal life. Having locked myself and the toddler out on the front porch with nothing but a laptop, a glass of water and baby gate, I proceeded to frantically IM my husband (yes, we IM all day long…so sad, so 2001, so…convenient) our dire predicament and solicit step-by-step instructions for breaking into the bathroom window. Because this also happened last week. And it was my fault then, too.
His first reassurance to me, unsolicited on my part, was that he was ‘sure I would fit’ through the window. A generous observation on his part, though perhaps a tad ill-timed. His careful instructions included the use of a snow shovel to pop the lock on the back gate, (as observed by a frantic, penned-in 17 month old locked in babygated prison) a snowy trek to the shed in the backyard to procure a hammer and an igloo cooler (to stand on, of course) and a crash course in window screen removal by said hammer.
5 minutes later as I was dangling from an insubstantial window opening, I realized that a complex half twist maneuver was going to be necessary, lest the entire weight of my body crush interior baby against the window sill. Summoning all my womanly courage, I twisted, grunted and slid into the bathroom, covered in gross window sill dirt and laundry detergent. (I hope the baby was taking notes, because mama is NOT doing sunnysideup back labor again. And I believe my maneuver could be successfully replicated in the birth canal.)
So that was yesterday.
Today, we’re going to the chiropractor. Luckily, we have the time.