A mother duck hustling her brood up the driveway. Frozen drinks. Fuchsia colored peonies. A sleeping baby in her carseat…
These are the things that make my weekdays ok.
On our busiest days, Iris and I spend a lot of time in the car. We take Carl to work at 10. We might stop on the way home to pick up whatever random thing we need that somehow didn’t make it onto last week’s shopping list. If I’m lucky, Iris falls asleep in her carseat and her morning nap runs long enough for me to park her in the living room and put away the laundry or wash a few dishes. She barely has time to wake up and eat before we have to zip out to shuttle Carl from work to his PT, where his appointments are now so long and intensive that it no longer makes sense to wait in the parking lot. We drive home. I eat. We pick up Carl and take him back to work. It’s mid afternoon now, and I’m wiped. Having napped so long earlier, Iris isn’t very interested in napping now. It’s also almost 90 degrees. I strip her down to her diaper, turn on the fan, and lie next to her on the floor, pretending that she’ll go to sleep anyway. She gurgles and kicks me gleefully. When hunger kicks in we enter this weird twilight zone of nursing and dozing that lasts until Carl texts to say he’s ready to be picked up, and I’m not quite sure whether or not I slept but I must have slept because it’s now too late to set out that steak to defrost, so I’m going to have to improvise something else for dinner when we get home.
Busy and not busy. My body is moving, working, sustaining life at all times, but my mindscape is wide open—if a bit foggy from lack of sleep. I think a lot. I process.
Although I think I’m going to punch the next person who tells me to “sleep when the baby sleeps.” If I did that we would both be roadkill.