“Overall, I think this was a pretty successful day,” my mom
said. It was Monday, which is the weekday I have chosen to stay home with my
son and give him one less day in daycare. She came over early that morning, and
we shared some coffee cake and coffee before heading to a hardware store. After
the store we headed to her place, and my son took a 1.5-hour nap. While he was
sleeping, we poked around in her backyard, and I ended up sawing off a couple
sections of tree roots that were pushing up patio bricks. Actually, I was kind
of surprised I could do it so easily – proof that picking up a 25-pound kiddo about
342 times a day really bulks up arm strength. After his nap and lunch, we stopped at the
grocery store and then back to my place. She left to take care of some other
business. And it was me and the boy until DH got home.
I’m not sure why, but Mondays have become incredibly
exhausting for me. Maybe it’s picking him up so often (since he’s not walking
yet). Maybe it’s managing him through the things-he-should-stay-out of,
irregular teething pain fits, trips to the store or wherever else I can take
him to get out of the house, fixing dinner, planning dinner, changing diapers
while trying to keep him from jumping off the changing table… On second thought,
it’s becoming clear to me why I’m so tired by 6:00 Monday evening.
I must be complaining about this a lot, because DH is
starting to suggest that I consider going back to work Mondays and extending
our son’s daycare to five days a week. I have a pang of guilt mixed with
determination whenever he suggests it, though: guilt because I know how
important it is for my son to have more time with us at such an early age; determination
because… well, I guess I’m determined to tough it out.
I’m beginning to wonder if I can survive my own
determination. It’s an odd type of tiredness I feel, like there’s not enough
coffee in the world in the morning, not enough wine in the evening (though I keep
that in check, too), and I can’t get to bed early enough. It makes me fully
aware of my midlife status, as much as I resent the implication that somehow it’s
okay to feel older and therefore weaker. A quick look at the bags under my eyes
only confirms the obvious. I’m just not as physically resilient as I once was,
and taking care of myself is more critical to my well-being and my ability to
handle life’s demands.
I checked in with my best girlfriend, and she assures me
that things will calm down when he gets a bit older – say, four. By that time,
my son will be done with the odd napping and the teething and at least some of
the tantrums (not to mention being potty-trained). I’ll probably be more
intellectually tired then, but that seems more doable. In the meantime, I guess
yoga is my second best friend. I’m in it for the long haul.
