I was supposed to be going back to work next week. (Looks around to see if anyone is listening). I kinda wish I was.
I’m bored. I had a feeling this might happen. Baby is fully weaned, enjoying his formula and waking up usually only once a night now. He’s not taking solids all that great but we are getting there.
The weather sucks. I’m not usually to complain about our climate but this has been a particularly long winter. At least it feels that way. I don’t even mind the snow, but the bitter, bitter cold makes it very difficult to go out for walks with the kids.
I haven’t run in a week. My ankle is still sore. I finally got on the exercise bike last night for 45 minutes and worked up a sweat and that felt good. But I miss running. I miss the freedom. I miss that 30-40 minutes of solely me-time.
And that makes me feel guilty. In five weeks I’ll be working 4 days a week and leaving husband with 3 kids. I’ll have all day to be with adults, to be “on my own” and to miss the kids. Yet right at this very moment, I wish I was going back to work next week.
My brain, like my body after not running for a week, feels like mush. I have a stack of New England Journal of Medicine magazines that I need to start reading, but I can’t focus for more than a few minutes without a child demanding juice, or a snack, or a diaper change. I honestly don’t know how parents do this day-in and day-out. I don’t know how my husband does it. I’ve been home for 5 months and I’m starting to go crazy. I knew this would happen but it felt too soon to go back to work in March. Now April feels a million miles away.
Even as I write this the guilt is overflowing – the older kids are watching Sleeping Beauty and the baby is jumping jolly. Lazy parenting at its best.