I used to be smarter and less frizzy

Motherhood has fried my brain. And, let’s face it, most of the rest of me. I am frazzled, both in appearance and in mindset. I can no longer complete one task, simple or otherwise, without thinking of a half dozen other things I have to do while in the process. Everyone’s needs come before my own. My kids have bathed, are wearing clean clothes and sleeping in clean sheets. My hair is dirty, my blouse is splotched with mysterious red dots, my bed is unmade (and not exactly line-dry fresh).

I wonder sometimes, lately frequently, what I did with my time before I had kids. What did I do?! I didn’t have to clean up after anyone but myself. I didn’t have to make any meals if I didn’t want to. I could go hours, or even an entire weekend, without speaking to another live person. There were afternoons that I spent curled up in my comfy yellow chair, enjoying the sun streaming in from the skylight–or the sounds of the rain on the glass–while reading. For hours. There were walks downtown just because. To wander into the bookstore, where I would peruse the shelves. For hours. There was time with my sweetie. Stretched out before us. Time when we could focus on each other, or on nothing. On world events. On sports. On live music we wanted to go see. Time spent planning the time we would spend together.

But did all of this really take up all of my time? Apparently.

This sounds like complaining. Much of my writing does, I realize. But, really, I don’t mean to complain. Really, I’m just baffled. I’m baffled at the sheer amount of work and energy and time it takes to raise children. To nurture a family. To get it all right. To be present in so many lives at the same time.

If I consistently had an afternoon to myself, maybe I would find an afghan and a corner of the couch and dive into a good book. Maybe I’d sit at a coffee shop with that book and look at it while eavesdropping on conversations around me. Maybe I’d splurge on the Sunday Times and spend the day doing the crossword puzzle.

But if I had a surprise afternoon alone, I know what I’d do. I’d get things in order. I’d clear my mind by way of clearing my cluttered environment. The piles of clothing that need to be given away, thrown away, handed down to Sarah’s boys. The piles of school papers that already have accumulated–in LESS THAN A WEEK. (A perfect example of something no one tells you about when you embark upon this parenting gig.) The dish cabinet, where dishes of all sizes are precariously balanced on others, because I have to unload the dishwasher at warp speed so E doesn’t climb in, and there is never room on the counter to put the clean dishes. The counter is always full of DIRTY dishes. I’d clean. Yes, I would. It is DIRTY around here. Even when I get to the toilets and the floors. Even when I brush down a few cobwebs from the corners and wipe down the fronts of the kitchen cabinets. There are those nasty under-the-bed zones. Rugs that will never, ever be clean enough. Dust. Lots of dust. The messes of our five lives, which together are MESSY.

Maybe if I felt on top of the housework for an afternoon I’d be able to dust off my own thoughts in the doing of all of the cleaning. Maybe. Surely, while I was cleaning, I’d be making lists in my mind of everything else that needed to be done. And I’d most likely pause every now and then to jot something down. Because I can’t concentrate on anything. And I can’t remember anything if it isn’t written down. And chances are, I won’t get to it anyway. Even if it is written down. Because there is no time. Because life is motherhood. And motherhood–this role that I chose and treasure and feel so fortunate to have define me–has fried me.

The secret is, I’m OK with it. For now. (And I know that any clean house never, ever stays that way for long. Nor should it. But my brain? It would be nice to have it back.)

Tagged as: chaos

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