The end of the year invites reflection. So I ask, why am I so stressed?
Yeah, I know. Baby. (Among other things, but let's go with baby.) But he's a doll. Cranky moments aside, he's a genuine joy to be with. So why do I spend equal amounts of home-time enjoying the baby and hoping the baby will let me do X?
Partly, it's life. I have to eat. The garbage needs to go out. I need clean laundry. The car needs an oil change. These aren't really negotiable items. But they're not the largest sources of stress, either.
I was the Queen of Time Management. In the four or five hours of my weekday life which are not work, commute, or sleep, I fit in regular exercise, regular musical practice, occasional personal research projects, occasional craft projects, home repair, and event planning. I enjoy all of those things. Some, especially the exercise and music, I'd finally built up to a decent momentum. I was making progress.
And the seasons changed. I wasn't ready for it.
I'm not good at quitting. Er, stopping. Because, you see, it's quitting. Quitter. It means you didn't keep trying. Gave up. Caved. If you really tried... if you were really strong... you wouldn't quit.
But it's not quitting, not any more than the trees have quit living because they've stopped having leaves.
Is it disappointing, to stop these projects when they seemed about to bear fruit? Yes. Does it mean I've failed them somehow? No. Can I return to them when the seasons turn again? Yes.
I don't intend to put my interests on hold until the kid is eighteen. I do need to get some sort of exercise, just for my health. But I want to be done feeling conflicted about what to be doing after work and on the weekends, about beating myself up for "quitting" what are really hobbies so I can enjoy my son's babyhood.
My son is a baby only very briefly. It's a short season, and an amazing one.