A few things you need to know about me (the non-pregnant me) in order to appreciate this post. Generally speaking, I am an extraordinarily driven, high energy, achievement oriented soul. A mixed bag really, as while possessing these traits allows me to get a lot done when I’m in a good space, they also contribute to the fact that I’m seriously intense, oftentimes opinionated and generally prone to work-a-holism. Translation: for better or worse, I derive my worth from what I accomplish… and therein lies the present problemo. These days, I am not accomplishing anything. Worse still, I feel no inclination to do so. In short, I’m not quite in that “can I just hole up and cry?” place, but I could definitely benefit from some… something. Now if only I could figure out what that something is (since copious amounts of Chateau Neuf and/or luxious, exorbitant spa days are out of the question), perhaps I could console myself. In the meantime, I’m stuck.
These days, my overall approach to existence seems to be “why bother?” Not that I don’t want to be existing, but that I don’t know who it is that has inhabited my ever-expanding body, so why should I attempt to do things for her? I have no motivation to write and I have even less desire to socialize. After all, there’s no doubt I’m pretty lousy company. At best, my friends must find me one-note and dull, and that’s to say nothing of how horrible I feel for my husband, who has to scramble to interpret my every fluctuation. Yet, while I’m intellectually aware of what I’m like to be around sometimes (I mean, let’s face it, there’s an implicit upside to dealing with a person whose blog is called Mood Swings), I find myself constantly annoyed that he’s not perfect… As in, what the hell was I thinking marrying a man who isn’t psychic?! Isn’t reading my mind part of the deal?!
All of this admitted, being generally self-aware, I know that when I’ve felt blah (okay, crazy) in the past, I am well served to take even better care of myself — both physically (which I do generally anyway) and also emotionally/mentally. Along those lines, going to the gym and having goals/setting intentions to give me direction and purpose usually improve my state of mind. The trouble is, going to the gym requires the fortitude to leave the house, and being driven requires actually knowing what you want. In other words, in order to self-start, you kind of have to know where you’re going, or at least have a general direction. At this point however, beyond having a baby in the room I know I have to finish (but don’t have the strength, artistry or time on hand to face) before he gets here, I have no clue what my life is going to look like two months from now… or a year from now… or ever again, really. Beyond cute little hands and feet, dimpled legs and arms and tiny outfits with hooded ears (I have to confess, those things completely melt me), I don’t know what to set my sights on. And so it is that I’m floating aimlessly toward motherhood… with that status as my only discernable defining characteristic.
It’s like all of my positive core qualities have been wiped out while all of my neuroses have been magnified. Do you hate me yet? Because between bouts of excitement over the impending arrival (who I imagine to be an amalgamation of my currently absent best characteristics and those of his father… all wrapped up in a – please god – under 9lb package), I most certainly do.
I guess at the end of the day (and this rant), all I can say is this: Poor Dash to one day have his mother’s insanity documented for him on the internet. But since that is indeed a fate that is part of his future (and god knows his birth won’t be the end of his tenure as my subject matter), here’s to hoping I return to some semblance of normalcy.
This way I can hold it all over his head as part of the unsettling (and magical!) experience I endured to bring him into existence.
