Life is very packed and overwhelming lately. My work has gotten very busy and stressful, as has Miguel’s. I’m often picking Weenut up later at daycare so that I can squeeze in an extra ½ hour or so at work. Which is easy to justify when I get there at 3:00 and am greeted by “But I wanted to stay for snnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaack.” WOE. “I wanted to play outttttttttttttside with my friends.” Which, thanks a lot.
I fought Friday airport traffic after a 3 day trip, rushed to pick him up and ended up having to drag him out of there screaming. I know he is only three, but it is hard not feel kicked in the gut when you’ve missed him so much and discover you’re less exciting than a pile of blocks he can play with every day.
Miguel is getting home later and we’re basically passing each other as we hand off Weenut duties-you get in a run, then I’ll trade you while I go out for a bike ride. Weenut’s bedtime routine, shower, get something to eat while Miguel checks his emails, then I get on the computer to work until after he’s gone to bed.
I hurt my foot running and biking is pretty much the only thing I can do until it heals. So my way to get my exercise done earlier in the afternoon with Weenut in tow is out the window. I’m in the worst shape I’ve been since losing all the Weenut baby weight. The number on the scale is not significantly higher, but everything is just soft and flabby. Guess it’s true what they say about muscle weighing more than fat.
Yesterday, as I was driving home thinking despairingly of all the things I had to do, how unhappy I was with how I look, how helpless I feel to change it while my body is all ganked up, and DOOM SPIRAL. I actually thought objectively, I am overdue for a giant life sucks ugly cry, which I haven’t indulged in for years.
I picked Weenut up on time, and we headed outside to play in the backyard in the gorgeous weather. As I was waiting for him to retrieve a ball, I saw last year’s dead container tomatoes, shoved into a corner of the yard. I don’t really have the time or inclination to get anything planted this year. I had wanted to build a raised bed in the back corner of the yard. My containers have struggled the last couple years because they’re not getting enough sun up by the house. “Next year,” I told myself. And then I immediately thought, “Will it really be any different next year? I will probably be just as stretched and stressed out…” and my chest started to tighten as the doom spiral started funneling down.
And then I caught sight of Weenut’s smiling face and I thought “What are you doing? What is the point of worrying about next year? You are here now. In the sunshine. Playing with this gorgeous, bright little boy who is getting so big so quick. Stop worrying about next year, next week, next hour. Enjoy this now.” Why is this so hard to remember to do?
Later, we were picking up the google-gillion pieces of his marble track and counting as we put them in the bag. He made it up to 29 by himself no problem but then he wanted to call the next piece 29-10. I corrected him and we counted 30, 31, 32 together until he grasped the pattern and continued by himself up to 39-10. So we started again at 40, 41…and then 50, 51…, etc. The look on his face when he was counting on his own, when he’d look to me uncertainly for confirmation as he said the next number and light up as he was figuring it out…just hard to find words to describe how amazing it is when you watch your child learn something, the comprehension and wonder and pride all galloping across his face in a split second. It’s one of those moments you wish you could freeze in time and never forget. (Also, there are 62 mother fucking pieces to that thing. I want to punch the person who gave it to him.)
Outside of that wonderment and awesomeness is the daily grind-the ugly parts of three with the incessant questions that blot out all coherent thought, the bouts of temper and defiance, the worry that we’re not doing enough, that we’re spoiling him. And on and on. That is a whole ‘nother post.