Wow. I suck.
Over a month without a post. It's not that I don't have things to say. I'm overflowing with things to say. They're coming out my ears. I recite them to myself as I walk down the street. I think about them so loudly that I swear people in Brazil must be able to hear me. But the more thoughts build up, the less able I am to write them down. I seem to be caught in a trap, having too little time to post something long, and feeling like the longer it is between posts, the more I should say. So, I wait for that mythical free hour in which I can pour out my soul, and it never comes around.
This working mommy gig is hard. Wonderful, but hard.
I'm very lucky. I like my job, and I LOVE being a mom. I am not coping with post-partum depression or lingering medical issues, and my daughter is healthy and delightful. Heck, I even hit my pre-IVF weight a few weeks ago while still maintaining a healthy chocolate intake. You can't ask for more than that.
Well, actually, yes you can. I would like about five extra hours in each day. Four for sleeping, and one for anything other than working and playing with the Egg (like cutting my toenails, combing my hair, emailing my sister, or blogging). As things are, I get up, take care of the Egg, go to work, come home, take care of the Egg, go to bed. Lather rinse repeat. Mystery is a rock star when I'm at work, and does pretty much all of the housework AND cooks dinner so I can focus on spending time with the baby when I'm home, but still, it boggles the mind how busy I feel.
Seriously, working moms that also blog, how do you do it?
I realize that there are other options, like putting Eggbert in a playpen (oh, I'm sorry, play yard) for an hour, even though she whines, or foisting her off on her daddy more often, but I worked so hard to have this baby that I want to spend every moment with her that I can. It's the highlight of my day.
So here I am. Happy. Busy. Haven't had a decent night's sleep in months (another story for another day, I think). Somehow managing to steal a minute to READ blogs from time to time, but not managing to write much.
I guess that's OK. It's going to have to be.
I do want to say this one thing, though. I have composed this lengthy post in my head that will probably never make it to light reflecting on the meaning of infertility after the fact. Here is the essence of it: infertility is not a psychiatric problem. It is so often treated as such--as if the infertile is creating her own misery by not accepting her fate or coping with it more gracefully. The fact is that infertility is upsetting, stress-inducing, depressing, and potentially life-altering. It often CAUSES emotional problems. However it is not an emotional problem itself. The best cure isn't an attitude adjustment, it's a treatment for the condition itself.
For me, it was simple. I was infertile. I was miserable. I did IVF. I got pregnant. I had a baby. I felt much, much better.