I'm utterly exhausted and not a little bit depressed. February is the heavy, gray month that comes after the hangover of Christmas. At least in January, you know that you feel horrible just because you had a fabulous time celebrating with family and friends over the holidays. And now it's morning, so you drink a lot of water and think the feeling will pass.
But in February, you're officially back to normal and the normal is a horrifying abyss with a bottom out of sight. I'm complaining because I'm tired, because I wonder if I've dropped out of the career to have a child, because it's gray outside, and because my little one year old still doesn't sleep through the night without demanding to be nursed. I thought two years old was when they started temper tantrums.
If you could visualize my brain as fuel graph from a Star Trek movie, all the glowing bars would be blinking bright red and there would be a red alert flashing from a huge red light on the wall. And Uhura would be reporting, "All communications are down, sir"
My energy and creative drive is low and I continually wonder if I haven't already given up. Have I given up my dreams in order to be a mommy? Have I leaned back in my chair as Sheryl Sandberg claims many women do as they begin to contemplate a family? Have I stopped raising my hand? Will I ever feel satisfied?
I've never been a loud one and definitely not on the track to CEO-dom, so the kind of success Sandberg is asking women to want doesn't appeal to me. I'm more the kind of person who wishes for a quiet space to create. Maybe the last question in the previous paragraph is the answer to the first. I have no family in the city, a few lovely contacts, a mostly wonderful man as a husband, and I'm tired. Yet, this exhaustion I feel is temporary. The ever present dissatisfaction with my current situation is a sign that I'm asking more for myself than simply watching the years go by. I have not leaned back. I will not always be mired in toddlerhood and that one day I will manage both the writing career I envisage for myself and the beautiful family life. I have just started both.
But in February, you're officially back to normal and the normal is a horrifying abyss with a bottom out of sight. I'm complaining because I'm tired, because I wonder if I've dropped out of the career to have a child, because it's gray outside, and because my little one year old still doesn't sleep through the night without demanding to be nursed. I thought two years old was when they started temper tantrums.
If you could visualize my brain as fuel graph from a Star Trek movie, all the glowing bars would be blinking bright red and there would be a red alert flashing from a huge red light on the wall. And Uhura would be reporting, "All communications are down, sir"
My energy and creative drive is low and I continually wonder if I haven't already given up. Have I given up my dreams in order to be a mommy? Have I leaned back in my chair as Sheryl Sandberg claims many women do as they begin to contemplate a family? Have I stopped raising my hand? Will I ever feel satisfied?
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