Before I even started feeling sick, I just sort of accepted my fate. I knew I'd be lying in bed, I knew the apartment would fall apart, and I knew my kids would spend hours in front of the computer watching uneducational television. When you can barely turn over without wanting to puke, arguing over whether or not they can watch My Little Pony isn't a priority.
But by this time, I have no one to blame but myself. I'm tired and weak and it's because I'm anemic. Which is because I was too sick to take my iron supplement. But I'm not sick anymore, haven't been for four weeks. And I still haven't started my supplements.
I just ordered them today. They should be in the mail in a few days. I'm looking forward to it, because I've begun to realize I'm not just lazy, I'm actually really, really tired. Not sleepy. I don't want to sleep. But I do lie in bed all day. I can't get myself up to do anything. Small tasks are hard. And I've mentioned before how I'm a crazy perfectionist who won't even try to clean up a little if it means I can't clean up a lot.
What's the use of unloading the dishwasher if I also can't load it, clear the table, wipe the counters, sweep, and then mop? I want to knock the person who ever said that infamous quote about a job half-done. Whatever it is. Sometimes all you can do is half a job, and that's better than not doing anything, right? Right. At least that's what I have to tell myself lately.
So today, I'm picking up my bedroom. And I'm doing it slow as molasses. I don't care that it took me fifteen minutes to clear my bed, take off the old sheets and blankets, put on fresh ones, and then take a break before figuring out what I was going to do next.
I don't even know what comes next. I don't know if the nexts will ever end. My home hasn't been such a disaster since I was pregnant with Austen. Even though I haven't been dealing with nausea and vomiting in a month, I can't seem to catch up. When things are this messy, there's not enough time in the day to win the race against the mess. It just keeps happening. We keep living, and then the living creates more mess. Like dishes and crumbs on the floor. Dirty socks in the living room. Towels strewn about the bathroom. And maybe that doesn't sound like a big deal, but when there's already three month's worth of mess in every corner and atop every surface, it is. One can hardly dig through to see the bottom before a pile gets placed somewhere else. And I'm tired. So tired.
Right now I'm curled up on my bed mending a tear in my bedspread that's been there for five years. It's about damn time. There's a load of laundry going and it's sweet music to my ears, because there are only the linens left to wash once it's done. Right now I'm ignoring the fact that the six loads of laundry that have been washed also need to be sorted, folded, and put away. After my blanket is mended I can move all said laundry to the top of my bed, all nice-and-neat like, and work on picking up the toys, books, trash, clothes, crumbs, diapers, notebooks, loose papers, and other things that have been lying on the floor for a couple weeks.
Maybe if I ever get my home clean, I can start being a mother again, instead of sticking my square-eyed children in front of the TV from morning 'till night. And then maybe we can welcome Baby into a clean, orderly, peaceful home where the kids don't fight and a made-from-scratch dinner's on the table every evening just as Daddy walks in the door, and our time is spent reading classic children's books and painting and cuddling and putting our laundry up right away (and not navigating our way from bridge to town to Candy Mountain with a certain loud-mouthed little girl).
But I'm not complaining. This is just an observation. I'm fairly certain I'll catch up and that my children will survive and won't be permanently damaged by their over-consumption of Dora. I think.