Gone Fishing

I'm not dead, no, though you all could be pardoned for thinking so. I'm on vacation, and in more than the obvious sense. My brain has entered a different space. I'm not thinking about big questions. I'm thinking about--the iPod is fried; do I get a new one now, or later; and in blue, or green? I bought a bike to ride back and forth to work; should I get one of those little carriers that goes over the back wheel for Frances? Dare I trust my precious baby to such a precarious contraption? I'm baking chocolate chip cookies and banana bread, cooking roast lamb and pork chops, reading books and magazines at a nice glacial pace. I'm taking Frances school shopping and spending way too much money on the most adorable little outfits you've ever seen just because you only start school for the first time once--obviously--which makes this something special and worth celebrating. I'm presiding over her spontaneous playdates with her new friend C, and our trips to the complex pool, and walks to the park.

It's unsustainable, I start back at work full-time next week. But right now everything has slowed, and a great many things have fallen off, and it's nice.

Frances is having a great time with her vacation, even though, to help her adapt to her new daycare and school, she is spending a few hours each day at the new place (which I then spend getting things done). She'd rather not, and I know and understand why, but as of next Tuesday she'll have no choice but to be there all day nearly every day, and I don't want that to be a shock to her system, so we're keeping in the groove. It's still an easier groove. We get up when Frances wakes up and take our time getting ready, then head over, instead of dragging ourselves from our comfy blankets when the alarm goes to beat the traffic.

It's such an idyllic pause: just the two of us, and no reason to hurry. I don't even miss blogging right now, neither the reading nor the writing. Though, to be fair, I have no idea what I'd write or when I'd write it. I'm living my life in the fractured fifteen-minute fragments I remember from my mat leave days; and even so, nothing seems compelling right now. I don't know who I am.

I was a wife and mother for a long time, and now I'm not. I am still a mother, even during those 48 hours every week when I live like a bachelor (gender intentional), letting the dishes pile up in the sink and walking around in my pyjamas until past noon. I don't miss being married, and I don't miss my ex-husband, but something is shifting underneath the surface and I don't know in what direction it is going.

To adapt, slowly, we've started building a few new routines. We've started reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland a chapter at a time before bed. I didn't get cable in the new place (so far, so good) and instead she watches a limit of about one hour's worth of dvd's over the course of the day, which I expect will be much easier to enforce once I am back at work and we are hardly ever here. She's eating a lot healthier now that my word goes on the snacks and meals issue. I wish I could say the same for myself; but as I mentioned, I'm doing a lot more baking. (An aside on that: I used to bake all the time when I was living with roommates in university, and I stopped over the last five or six years. But since moving here I just started again, and I don't know why. It's one of those things that is shifting. Who would have thought becoming a single mother would make me more of a Susie Q Homemaker? Not that it's bad; I've already had half of yesterday's cookies eaten by neighbourhood kids and their appreciative families.) Friday nights, when Frances isn't here, I cook myself a nice dinner that will make good leftovers. Thursday nights are for laundry, so far, and doing groceries, and then a nice long run or bike ride to explore the new neighbourhood. After Frances is put to bed and falls asleep the rest of the week--which doesn't take long, she's given up her last nap over the course of her vacation--I do a workout, do the dishes, tidy up what needs tidying, and when the post-workout energy buzz fades, collapse into bed. Most things are getting done, except for writing, and I haven't yet figured out where that one is going to go or how it will work. The crafty stuff has been set up in the kitchen and I can work on that while Frances plays. And I do, for as long as she'll let me.

I'm exhausted, but not stressed; we'll see how long that lasts once I start working again.

Posted by Andrea at September 4, 2007 5:59 PM under Decision 2007

EMAIL this entry

(comments fields are below this section)