Monday morning. Almost as peaceful as a Friday Morning, really.
Working a short work week is a good thing. I've missed it a lot. I used to work a compressed work week before I had my son Hunter. I loved it so much. I'd work an extra hour an a half every day and in turn, I'd get three Fridays out of four off.. I used to stay out late Thursday night and would spend my Friday's sleeping in late, doing errands, and getting ready for the weekend, which would usually consist of more late nights, copious amounts of alcohol and late nights.
Then I switched offices to where I am working now, met Punk Boy and subsequently had a child. The compressed work week had to end. Once I returned to work, day care and responsibilities outside of the home made it almost impossible for me to even think of working a compressed week again. Sure, I was bummed, but one has to do what one has to do.
Now, as things have progressed and have gotten more level, I'm back on the compressed work schedule. I only work half an hour later than usual, and in turn I get one and a half Monday's off every four weeks. Today is my first Monday off.
I was excited. I was looking forward to the calm and the serenity of being home alone, doing things on my own schedule and maybe getting some extra chores done around the house. Hunter is still off a day care, Punk Boy is off at work and I'm here, listening to the hum of the dishwasher.
I had to take this opportunity to write, but as I sat here at the computer with a bowl of yogurt, I realized I really didn't have much, if anything to say. There in lies the problem, a problem I've been having for a while now, that I really am not sure how to deal with.
Basically, I have run out of things to say, out of conversations to make, out of ideas to share. I've become rather blank. My days are spent rationalizing with a two and half year old, and by the time I get regular adult to talk to, my conversation skills have been beaten to a pulp by my son. I suppose I'm just feeling the burn of motherhood and of course, some days are worse than others, but I feel completely awkward in social situations where I feel the need to take the helm as the conversation is waxing. I have issues with meeting new people as my verbal skills are just lacking and I find myself talking over and over again about my family.
It's normal, I suppose, as the family is what I am around most, if not all of the time. Sometimes I catch myself talking about what crazy thing my son did and I can't believe I'm doing it.. AGAIN.
As for the writing, I'm stumped. Moments of inspiration come when they come but my time is not my own. Sure, I make notes and now that Hunter is a bit older, I can actually set him up with some toys and write for a few minutes, but it won't be long before he comes over to see what I am doing. Then it's all downhill.
So now that I have these quiet moments, these times to myself where I could just let loose on paper, I don't have much to say. It scorns me a little bit and makes me sad.
I shouldn't give up. The day is young, its not even the afternoon yet, maybe some sort of inspiration will hit me later...