I think I learned something about myself last week.
I know, I know. It's a little dorky and cliched and whatever to announce that in a blog, but give me a break. I haven't been in this space for three weeks or so and I missed my blogaversary and I'm a bit nostalgic and also rusty.
And so - I learned something. About myself. Last week.
On Wednesday I had some, I guess you could call it exploratory surgery. (If you are of the male persuasion or don't like to read about lady bits, you might want to pick up in the next paragraph.) Basically I've had some random, excessive spotting that I haven't been able to get rid of for the past year and a half. So my doctor figured it was time to take a closer look and see what she could see with a camera. Like the bottom of the deep blue sea sea sea.
I don't know. Rusty, remember?
I didn't have any pain, but I had to have anesthesia, which meant that all day Wednesday I was groggy and tired. The kids stayed with my parents, who are pretty amazing for taking that on. The were there all day Wednesday, Wednesday night, and all day Thursday.
For a week before the surgery I started getting excited, thinking about all of the uninterrupted time to myself I would have. I never have time alone, and I absolutely never have time alone where I don't have a million things that I have to do. And with this, I physically wasn't able to do anything, so I was ordered by my doctor to do nothing. To sit around all day. DOING NOTHING.
I spent all of Wednesday laying on the couch watching television. I did attempt to knit a little bit, but my mind wasn't able to focus. And on Thursday I tried to get up and clean a bit but got dizzy and had to sit back down.
I thought I would be in heaven. It was all I thought I wanted. Time to veg out. Time to do nothing. Time to not worry about anything but running out of television shows to watch. (I totally ran out.)
But I hated it. HATED IT. I was so bored and lonely and just all around done with doing nothing. My body didn't know how to relax.
I spend so much time running around all day that when I was forced to relax I was miserable. The TV was ridiculous and irritating. I read, too, which was nice. But all I wanted to do was stand up and vacuum or wipe something down or knit something or sew something. I wanted to DO something. Or if I couldn't do anything, I wanted my babies back home so I could break up their arguing or fetch a cup of milk or play outside.
I wanted this so much that I made Chris go pick up the kids on Thursday when I probably should have taken another day to recover. I was by myself all day with the kids on Friday and in that time I made bread and pizza sauce and pizza dough and mozzarella cheese and ice cream and I fixed lunch and I carried my daughter around because she wasn't too happy with me for leaving her for so long.
And I loved it.
It was exhausting and even a bit painful, but that's normal, right?
I struggle over and over again with feeling like I fail at motherhood or fail at keeping the house in order. I feel like I'm lazy and unproductive.
But on Thursday, when I was begging my light-headedness to go away so I could do some laundry, I realized that I've got this.
My house may not always be spotless (HA!) and my kids may spend too much time playing games on the ipod - but I'm not lazy. Or unproductive.
So shove it, self-perception dysmorphia.
Go somewhere else. I don't have time to deal with you. I'm too busy.
(Here's a link to my first blogaversary post. Maybe for my third I can get it together to write something super awesome. One can hope, right?)