It’s been a quiet few weeks here, and it’s probably going to stay quiet for the next little while. After almost a year, motherhood has caught up with me. I’m run down, sick, exhausted, and exasperated with my lack of ability to fix any of the circumstances creating those states of being. Changes on the horizon in the next month include weaning the baby off breastfeeding (I have never wanted to go beyond a year, or at least not further than a gentle weaning by stages would necessitate) and me getting over this damned virus by virtue of a month from now being a month from now, and surely by then my immune system will have gotten its shit together.
In the meantime, I am focusing on controlling what I can – namely, and sadly, jettisoning all activities other than those related to day-to-day living. No blogging, no sewing, no writing. I read a few posts over the weekend about people who “got it done” by whatever means necessary, ignoring their kids, neglecting their spouses, driving their health into the ground by staying up as late as they had to to write those 2000 words for the day, and it just sort of hit me: I can’t do that. I love writing. I love finishing books. Both are intrinsic parts of who I am at this point in life. But I am not going to kill myself to do them.
Right now, for this little stretch of time, I need a goddamned break, and the only part of my life wherein I can get one are the obligations I foist on myself in pursuit of a larger dream.
So if I’m quiet for a bit, this is why. I’m spending my energy killing off bronchitis, or walking pneumonia, or whatever the hell this is, and my evenings sleeping instead of trying to force out a few hundred words after a day at work and an evening of chores, when my hands are trembling with fatigue. To hell with that. I wanna live.