For a while during this, I impressed myself with how I managed my life. For the person who finds it difficult to keep to a toothbrushing schedule, living a boundaryless life in the slippery time-space of home, with a fucking TWO YEAR OLD to boot, sounded like a bad idea.
But I kept us eating healthily, we exercised every day, I planned enriching activities, I got done what I needed to get gone, I deep cleaned the house every week, I planned ahead and I kept on top of things. I took care of us well, and I had fun doing it.
Now it’s getting stale.
I mean, it had to be expected. But I’m still a little disappointed in myself.
I’m thinking about pizza and I ate two slices of cake tonight. My son’s bored of the exercise routine and I can’t be bothered to think of any more ways to make it new and exciting. Sometimes now when he asks to watch TV outside of a TV-designated time I just say okay because, frankly, that sounds quite nice. I noticed the bath felt kinda grungy tonight but just filled it up anyway. I might run out of vegetables this week. And I didn’t clean my teeth until 6pm.
It’s all totally fine, but just a little bit blah.
And the reason I’m writing this, really, is so I can laugh at myself, because OF COURSE IT FUCKING IS. There were totally some good, useful, nurturing, relieving things to come out of lockdown for me. But this is not how we are supposed to live. It’s weird as shit, and it’s getting old. Just let it be what it fucking well is, Yve.
Part of me is clearly worrying that I’m on the slippery slope of a tragic descent into complete disorder. And in fairness, that is possible. I’ve descended into complete disorder before. But I don’t think that’s where I’m headed. I think I’m just a perfectly human human, humaning in a perfectly human way.