When I was pregnant time was something I had far too much of. Regardless of how long I slept there were still too many hours in the day when my husband was at work and I had to try and keep the demons at bay alone. I was so fatigued, both physically and mentally that I couldn’t focus properly on anything that might have worked as a distraction.
I couldn’t read, I couldn’t knit, I couldn’t bake, I struggled with Facebook, texts, phonecalls, emails. I even struggled sitting at watching the television. Depression had such a strong hold on me that it invaded every waking thought, until I would be sat on the sofa, frozen with fear and anxiety, watching the clock and counting the minutes until my husband would be home.
Sometimes I would be too frightened to be left at home on my own. Terrified of the thoughts and images that my mind could summon against my will.
Terrified of what I might do but without the power or energy to stop myself.
On those days my husband would take me to work and I would wait for him in the ward staff room or the doctors mess. Being away from home made things a bit easier, I was surrounded by people weren’t interested in talking to me but would definitely notice if I tried to do anything.
On those days I would sit almost in a trance, able to keep my mind at bay for eight hours at a time but unable to do anything else.
Now Squidge is here and there just aren’t enough hours in the day.
I know it’s a cliche that having a baby means that you never have enough time but it’s true.
I had nine months where I was unable to do anything and to be honest my motivation on my days off wasn’t all that good before I was pregnant.
I have so many things that I want to do.
And so many things that I need to do.
At 2230 last night I was tie-dying clothes for Christmas presents because I needed time uninterrupted by Squidge to do it properly. I now have very attractive Bahama blue fingers where I hadn’t quite rinsed all the excess dye out before I removed the elastic bands.
So far today I have cleaned the kitchen, swept the floor, washed up, run the steriliser, done one load of laundry and hung another, given Squidge his breakfast and cleaned up the aftermath, stripped his bed, changed his clothes and his nappy, given him his bottle, wiped his nose a million times and played with him.
He seems determined to walk before Christmas and so is needed lots of supervision using his walker so that he doesn’t brain himself.
I’ve knocked out enough of his brain cells as it is.
This makes me sound very organised but I am as yet unshowered, still in my PJs and the only food I’ve eaten so far is the choccy from my advent calendar.
I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks, I’ve got more roots than hair colour and the only reason my nails are trimmed and filed is because I have to have them neat for work.
I still have to iron my uniforms.
I can get everything done and feel like I’m making some headway in helping Squidge develop into a semi normal human being that the only way I’m going to get any time for myself is if I don’t sleep.
I need to sleep. End of.
It seems almost a cruel joke of the universe; I have more energy and motivation and ideas than I have done in years but the time just isn’t available. Even after broken sleep I wake up most mornings wanting to DO; to be creative, to go out, to see new things but knowing that I have a huge list of housework to do that I can’t put off otherwise my husband will have no work clothes, Squidge will have no bottles and his bed will remain covered in the side effects of his cold.
I find time to blog because I have to, it’s the one thing that I have for me that isn’t being Mummy or going to work.
Now if you’ll excuse me I have a son I need to wipe.
And maybe find time for a shower.