I guess the reason I felt obligated to write a post about being tired -- um, hello boring topic! -- was that I just wasn't feeling like myself. I felt off. Off enough that it worried me. And logic seemed to dictate that fatigue was the reason. And I guess by naming it as such, I hoped it would be true.
I'm feeling a little better, but I'm still not sure that sleep deprivation is the cause of my world weariness.
Everyone keeps saying that it's the last week of work (before my summer off), and that's true, but then they say, "it must be crazy at work." And that's not true. It's been a slow wind down for sure. Worse this year than previous years, because I lacked any ambition. Including not attending even one of the three graduations this year. Sigh.
I hope more rest will help. I'm a little worried. Worried I won't feel better and I'll be a craptastic mother to poor Calliope for the next two months, who won't get a break from me all summer long.
In my defense -- not that any of you are worried -- I think I've actually been a pretty excellent mother thus far, no matter what else was going on with me. I'm sure this will not always be the case, so I try to appreciate it for now. As she gets older and more challenging -- temper tantrums and even just the ability to tell me what she really thinks of me spring to mind -- I'm sure I will likewise lose my temper, yell, do and say things I regret. But so far, apart from the less than tender bathing (after she pooped and then smeared it -- would that be schmeared in Brooklyn-speak? -- in the rug), which was really nothing, it hasn't happened yet. I know I should appreciate my tabula rasa of good parenting intentions.
Still, I worry because I want to enjoy it. Every minute of it. Or at the very least, not to slog through the summer.
My new boss offered me the opportunity to do a little administrative work over the summer, and I'm oddly excited by the idea. That I could work, from home I presume, and get a little break from Calliope by hiring a babysitter.... yet still physically be here to nurse her and put her to sleep and just watch her amazing, budding self... while not being responsible for stooping down to scoop her up, or arrange toys, or laboriously spoon purees into her hesitant mouth... not to mention a little infusion of cash.... yet not having to commute. It all sounds pretty amazing. Somehow the idea of taking a break to do work is oddly exciting.
One of the things I've been worried about is my not-so-new lack of enthusiasm about a job I've previously adored. I assume it was pregnancy (last year) and new motherhood (this year), but still, it scares me. I've always been a person who cared about work. It's important to my identity. So the idea of doing just a little bit of work, at my own pace, and from a different perspective -- creating documents that guide our clinical practices, instead of doing the actual clinical practice -- also feels like it might fire up my zeal for patient care again, come September.
The real estate thing is, I think, dragging me down substantially. Nothing has really gone wrong, so far, it's just dragging. It makes me kind of depressed to even think about it. Dealing with people's incompetence is frustrating.
Yesterday, I realized that one earlobe was minus my grandmother's diamond earring. I'm not sure which was more discouraging, the loss or that I might not even care that much.
I've been watching a TV show in the evening lately, on my laptop. I just crave the hour (or two) of escape so much. I've never been a TV watcher. Partly because I know it tends to affect my mood. The show I'm watching right now isn't even that good -- Army Wives -- it's just easy, and not so bad as to be more pain than pleasure. But I wonder if that intensified emotional rush that comes from engaging in a TV show is impacting my sense of weariness?
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