A few weeks ago, my friend K posted a harmless and chuckle-inducing Facebook status update:
“Fantastic brunch had; Christmas shopping done; presents wrapped; coffee toffee, gingerbread chocolate chunk cookies, peanut butter balls, chili, and a million iced sugar cookies made; laundry and dishes done. Sunday, I own you.”
That status update was my girl from Ipanema. Each day when she walks to the sea, she looks straight ahead not at me.
I used to have weekends like that. I’d wake up Saturday morning with a list that included going for a run, baking, working on whatever project I was puttering with at the time, squeezing in a movie, laundry, cleaning, etc. By Sunday night I’d fall into bed tired, satisfied, supremely happy. My husband’s nickname for me was Busy Bee.
This does not happen anymore. Months pass without me finding the time to tackle a single task beyond feeding the bambina, entertaining her, and getting her to sleep. Entire weekends pass and I find myself wondering how the hours evaporated. For six months a stack of photos have sat waiting to be hung on the wall. They buttress the jungle wallpaper rolls that have been waiting to take their place in the nursery for seven months. Back in the pre-baby day both of those projects would have been done in a weekend, and it likely would have been the same weekend.
Christmas decorating? Forget about it. The lights went out on a third of the tree and I never fixed them. Our tree sat like that for the entire season, a two-thirds-lighted reminder of how life’s changed.
This post isn’t heading toward some saccharine, “Oh, but my life is so much more fulfilling now,” conclusion. The fact is, for an anal retentive nest featherer like myself this devolution is painful. I felt an actual pang when I read about K’s weekend. More than my former waistline and the ability to sleep late, I miss productivity. Because I used to be Miss Productivity.