I keep thinking of topics I will write about for my blog. Essays. Vasectomy after infertility. Postpartum Depression after Infertility. This transition to the other side where I now facilitate infertility support groups. How infertility is so hard on sex and sexiness. Parenting and anger. Identity as a feminist stay at home mom. The list goes on. I have not large chunks of time to write. But I know need to write. Sometimes people come to my house and I have been alone for long stretches of time. I mean really long stretches, because turns out it's hard to get out with two babies. Turns out three kids means we are all sick more often and it takes longer for colds and such to cycle through. There is more quarantine. So I am alone with small children a lot. And my thoughts and ruminations jostle around my brain, bumping into each other, styling on each other, sometimes fighting and snarling at one another, climbing the walls with no let outlet. When people come to my island, this mess of thoughts starts to spill out. And it is not a conversation. It is me using a friend as a slate upon which to verbally chalk. It is unfair and embarrassing, this verbal processing. I sometimes make myself inappropriately vulnerable, sometimes stir nests of bees Eihout knowing it because I am too busy talking. Maybe I need to write so I don't bug the shit out of people. But I need to write. And for me knowing someone may read it makes it more real. Throwing a stone in a pond. So maybe this blogging is going to happen on my phone while waiting for food to take up to my husband at his work. Today is Thursday. The day I have a sitter so that I can spend quality time with my eldest, and on occasion with myself.
Lately all the time not engaged with children has been focused on organizing the house: clearing out the attic. Shuffling rooms, moving my oldest into the attic and the babies OUT OF OUR ROOM! Hallelujah! It has happened. There are not cribs and a cosleeper smashed up against my bed. I am not spending most of the night patting the bum of my daughter as she mewls in her sleep. She is mewling in the next room, not waking up, sleeping sans butt pats. I am still up a lot for wakings and soothing, but less. And my head feels a bit clearer with some physical space in my home. We ditched some furniture, took down the pack and play in the living room. And erected baby gates to pen the crawlers. One phase gives way to another. They move of their own accord now! My daughter chants mamamamamamam. My youngest son does downward dog, collapses on the ground and then drags himself towards the object of his desire.
And I continue to steer the ship. And dream of sleep.
