Life has been a bit crazy as of late. Not that it's not always (was that an improper use of a double-negative?), but I feel particularly overwhelmed. I'm still adjusting to the girls' schedules, even though it's been about a month since they went back. I'm loving being able to walk both of them to school, and we're actually on time (so far), but strangely having more time seems to be making it harder, not easier, for me to work. I don't know what it is, but I really would just like to lie on the sofa watching TV, eating candy, possibly with a drink in hand.
I think that having a kindergartner and a three year-old is affecting more than I'd like to admit--my babies aren't really babies anymore, even though of course they'll always be my babies, and there's a sense of loss down there somewhere, in a place I'm not ready to access. Admittedly I talk about loss perhaps too often on this blog, but this feels more acute, more specific.
Up until recently it's been a vague sense of their babyhoods slipping away, and now it's staring me in the face. June is still little, but she's not that little. And I'm approaching 35, and loved the early years of being a mom, and now my career seems to be taking off more which is amazing, but I think there's a bit of a pre-midlife crisis going on, a reevaluation of my role as a parent.
Looking over the above I'm suddenly worried that too much of my writing is in some ways "sad." I know I speak about my gratitude, but it seems to be coupled with some sort of rumination on time's passage. Am I getting repetitive? I suppose when I approach blogging it's because I feel that communal desire to share; when I'm content I don't need to write. It seems to be the creative way.