Everything was going along just fine. And then Max and I decided it
would be just fine to get married, have a baby, move twice and buy a
house (oh wait, move three times) all in one year. And then my brain
decided to go all out of service on me. It's no wonder I'm sitting in
the lobby of one of my two weekly therapists offices. It's no wonder
there are a pile of folded clothes permanently affixed to the top of
the shelf in my bedroom. It's no wonder I ask myself daily, almost
hourly: "What the fucking fuck?"
Anyone with a five year old will tell you, get used to it. Life at
home now consists of doing laundry and dishes, packing lunches and
playing with Legos (or dolls or pillow pets or play dough...). In a
rare and shining moment of me time, you can find me paying bills or
grocery shopping. Sleeping in means sleeping past 7.
I know it sounds like I'm complaining. That's probably because I am.
Even five + years after welcoming my tiny new housemate/employer, I am
taken aback by the massive change being a parent has made to my life.
OF COURSE for the better. But also for the annoyinger, the busier and
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