I look around the house and see pieces of my life that need fixing every day. The toilet runs downstairs. The wallpaper is only half-finished. The trim fell off the vent. It needs to be painted. There are no pictures on the walls. There is no room here complete. I want a deck. I want a garden. I want a mud room that is functional. I need my own bathroom. I need my own closet. I need an addendum to my current life. Can we do that? Can we put an addition onto our lives while we are still living them? A fix-up clause?
In my own defense, we moved into our first home on a Sunday and had baby #3 the very next day. There were boxes piled in the attic and the basement that were never unpacked. There were boxes lining the walls of the bedrooms that took weeks to get through. Pictures on the walls were not the first priority. Putting the crib together was higher up on the list. Hooking up the tv. Stocking the fridge.
But it’s been 18 months people. Maybe I could get the stairs painted, fix the toilet, renovate the shower? Maybe I could at least create a timeline for the Projects List? It could happen, I guess. If I could manage my time better. If I could gain a little energy. If I could actually function when I’m not directly under the knife that is motherhood, the knife that is employee, the knife that is housecleaner, caretaker, food shopper, poop-scooper. But when I’m not called to duty I am jello. No, strike that, I’m pudding. I don’t even bounce back.
As much as there are places in my house that need renovating, there are places within. I see the house as I want it to be. I see a me that I want to be. But it seems so much easier just to knock out a wall, or re-tile a bathroom. These things are tangible. Concrete. These changes are effective. Long-lasting. A means to an end. But the changes within? They are harder to come by. And I change my mind all the time about that me that I want to be.
I’ve got to figure this shit out, but it’s not going to happen tonite. Tonite I’m drinking wine and falling victim to muscle relaxers. I’m hoping I can self-induce a coma and get some pain-free sleep. Instead of pinpointing all of my wants, needs and personal desires, I finally wrote a draft for my About page. This a terribly difficult thing to do. Nobody tells you. I’ve put it off for months. How should I represent myself? What tone should I take? Do I need to follow in the footsteps of bloggers everywhere and include boring details about my day job while peppering my online persona with quirky habits, likes and dislikes? Aw, fuck it. It’s not polished and could be rewritten every day. And I’m as quirky as the next person. So are you, you know? So are you.
Is this where my addendum starts? By writing specifically about my life? History, insecurity and reality.
All about me. Okay, just a little. A little about me.
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“And I change my mind all the time about that me that I want to be.”
I COULD expound, elaborate, effuse.
But I won’t.
Because I don’t need to.
’nuff said.
History, insecurity and reality. Have you been hanging around in my head?
Aw, fuck it. WORD, girlfriend.
it is so overwhelming to look at your surroundings and think: wow, there is so much that desperately needs attention around here (what i’m actually thinking when i look at my house: “what a fucking dump! this place is falling apart.”). it’s even MORE overwhelming when you all of a sudden realize that your surroundings are actually a reflection of yourself. there is so much to do, so much to change, so much to fix. have we forfeited the right to have anything but a life made up of children and their detritus and their exhausting ways, because we chose to have children? i don’t think so. i think it’s a matter of fitting in one thing at a time when there is time. i know “they” say we need to take care of ourselves first, but honestly. when was the last time you ignored a shitty diaper to paint your nails? it has to be realistic. that’s the hard part. don’t you think?