I always seem to be busy lately. I was always sort of busy Pre-Kid, but now on most days I feel like I’m in the eye of a storm. I’m thinking about the next three tasks while completing the current task. I’m constantly moving, constantly sorting another load of laundry, searching for a binky, folding a blanket, tossing a toy into a basket.
I keep waiting for things to slow down. And then last night it hit me: It’s not going to slow down. Not for another 18 years. And maybe not even then.
“Remember back in the day,” I asked Mike, pausing in the midst of unloading the dishwasher. “When we would come home from work, immediately change out of our work clothes and plop down on the couch. On nights that we ate leftovers, we would only leave the couch to dump some food in a bowl, and then we’d be right back on that couch. For hours.“
“Yeah, ha,” he shot back. “Those days are gone.“
I wasn’t mourning it. I wasn’t missing the hours of couch time. We did that. We had years of little responsibility and lots of lounging around. We stayed out late, we slept in. It was fun. It was needed. And I was ready to move on.
And now? Now, I love my busy life. I love giving baths in my dress slacks. I love when my son comes home from daycare, full of energy and ready to play. I love the revolving loads of tiny jeans and soft wash cloths. I love finally collapsing on the couch at 8:30 each night, with a glass of wine and a blanket.