I have been so bad about keeping up with both this and the Sunday Circle lately. Night float completely destroyed our regular routine (and not in a bad way–we actually got to see the Hubby regularly and do things!–but ordinary routines went out the window in favor of spontaneity). Then there was Birthday #2. Then there was family visiting. And it’s only going to get better as me and the Little Guy head up to the Finger Lakes in the next couple weeks for a family reunion trip. WOO! Embrace the chaos!

Schedule Shifts Wreak Havoc!

It’s always an adjustment when the Hubby’s schedule changes, but the tougher transition–strangely enough–is usually when he has a bit *more* time to be home. I love having him around, and his stress levels usually go down when he’s around more, so all in all it’s a huge win for the family when his schedule isn’t so demanding. However, it also becomes increasingly more difficult to find time for myself to get done the things I need to do in order to feel like a whole, functioning human being. (This includes, of course, writing, but also keeping up on reading, keeping the house in tolerable disorder so my brain keeps working, and general social/physical downtime as needed to recharge after a long day of being screamed at, tugged on, climbed on, kicked, bit, smothered in kisses, cuddled with (to the denial of all else), and general hamminess which is both fun and exhausting.) *DEEP BREATH*

Having the Hubby around more facilitates more adult-level conversation and also more relaxation/downtime, but it also tends to push other things out of my evenings, since the Hubby really needs to be in bed by 10:30 most nights, which means hanging out with him requires putting off other solo activities until later. However, after 10:30PM, I’m pretty much mentally useless, too (especially if we have a beer while we watch any variety of our favorite shows), and by the time he heads up to bed, I’m just about ready to crash myself. EXCEPT: 1) The dishes haven’t been done, which means the stupidly shallow sink is unusable, the kitchen is a disaster, and our ant adversaries will strengthen their forces overnight. 2) I haven’t done any writing, and have little to no energy to invest in it post-10PM, making me feel like a creative wussy and failure and not “a real” writer. 3) Any reading or penmanship practice I’d wanted to get into as a wind-down for the evening gets crunched into a very tight timeframe, which negates some of the relaxation/ritual elements of those activities, which kind of moots their purpose to a degree, and if I’m to relax while reading, then the living room at least needs to have all the Duplos off the floor, or I’ll worry about stepping on them, or the cat peeing on them when I’m not looking.

It makes for a very frustrating evening of trying to jam in all the things I care about but which I typically have to wait until the wee one is down before tackling. I’ll eventually adjust, as I find ways to shift some portions of those activities earlier (for example: dishes, if I’m on my game, can often be done mostly after lunch, leaving far less to tidy at night). I’m also inspired by a fellow writer’s attempts to write just 300 words in three separate sittings during the day, and I think that may be a way to alleviate the stress from not being able to have a defined writing schedule for the foreseeable future. And I actually really like hanging out in the evenings with the Hubby and chatting about the day and joking around and having a beer and junking out on TV, because it is relaxing in its own way. Part of the reason I want to get my old routine satisfactorily adjusted is so that I can enjoy these evenings guilt-free without worrying about all the things I now can’t get done.

Adjustments: it’ll happen, but never as fast as I want.

AND THEIR DOOM SHALL BE UPON THEM/ AND LO, MY WRATH FEED UPON THEIR MIRIAD SCREAMS

I’m waging war against a colony of ants in the kitchen. It’s been touch and go as to who will ultimately get the upper hand. Partly, it’s my fault for having tolerated the handful I’ve found here and there, figuring, “Well, it’s the season for ants, isn’t it?” and perhaps foolishly hoping it would resolve itself without incident.

Yesterday, the ants took the kitchen radio, and I declared proper war. I singlehandedly massacred a hundred or more, all the while reciting DOOM AND GLOOM PROPHETIC POETRY I made up as I went, because, yes, I’m crazy like that. But it also made the attack a bit more humorous, which I needed. I do not rejoice over the deaths of my enemies, but there comes a time where the larger beast must take on the smaller beasts, and there’s some interesting primal feelings that go along with knowing you have such power. May they rest in peace and not haunt my house. (Note to self: story idea.)

At any rate, I have learned from my mistakes, and will not underestimate my enemy again. Today, we picked up some ant bait traps and I shall deploy them post-haste. Of course, since purchasing said traps, I have seen precisely zero ants in the kitchen.

WELL PLAYED, ANTS. WELL PLAYED.

Drama, Drama, Drama

We’re well into our terrible-twos phase, and just when I think it can’t get worse: IT DOES. Since his birthday (though the terribles started significantly before that), it seems I can do nothing right. Everything is tears and crying, even over the teeniest things I had no idea were apparently HORRIBLY INSULTING (such as, just now, eating a corner of his graham cracker). I swear, if he were a medieval king, I’d have had my head chopped off or have been drawn and quartered about a hundred times in just the last three days. O.O He doesn’t appear ill, just touchy as hell about everything. And of course, on the opposite end, the mere thought of my being inside when he’s outside with Daddy at the sandbox is THE WORST POSSIBLE THING HE COULD THINK OF WHY WOULD YOU TORMENT ME LIKE THIS? Which can only be rectified by clinging like a baby monkey to me for an hour.

Ah, the challenges of growing up!

I do my best to be sympathetic and understanding and calm, though I must admit by 8PM at the advent of the NINE BILLIONTH FLIPOUT SESSION because he can’t hit the cat in the face with his shoe: yeah. -_-

Boy, I can’t wait for him to gain some reasoning skills! Even his polite “Okay,” when I tell him something (even known he doesn’t have any idea what he’s agreeing to) helps a bit.

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