This poor little blog. It’s been through so many life adjustments with me.
I am a new-idea addict.
I agree, intellectually, with the power of diligence, consistency, routine… I’ve learned the necessity of some of those things in my life. Breakfast, for instance, and regular baths for Mars and Wick. And me. And Joe. (We all get smelly without them.) Routine has power! Routine has punch! Routine moves the world! Routine gets boring.
B-O-R-I-N-G.
Sometimes don’t you just hate knowing what to expect?
Don’t you wish you’d wake up and see the fairies dancing on the windowsill instead of hearing the news reporter droning out the day’s weather and traffic problems? Don’t you just hope that Ed McMahon might show up on your doorstep, or it might snow in September, or you might discover a secret passageway, or suddenly begin speaking a foreign language, or open your closet to find a new wardrobe?
I especially like that last one… Unless it was, say, PeeWee Herman’s wardrobe that appeared, in which case I would beg for my old familiar clothes back, please oh please.
I don’t know what it is about familiarity that I despise sometimes, because sometimes I equally despise change. Okay, I do know.
It’s fear.
Sometimes I despise the familiar, routine, predictable movements of my days because I’m afraid of getting stuck, of turning into my Mom, of getting old, of missing an adventure, of being boring, of losing my taste for adventure, of waking up one day and finding that I missed life.
And sometimes I despise change, the new, the unfamiliar, the unexpected, the unknown because of fear. I’m afraid of being out of control. I’m afraid of losing what I love. I’m afraid of risk. I’m afraid of failure. I’m afraid that I can’t adjust.
I’m feeling both of those kinds of fear right now.
Wick just had his first birthday last week. I’m in week 21 of this pregnancy. In 19 short weeks, I will be commandeering a household of three babies under three years old. Lately all I’ve been thinking is, “What the heck was I thinking?”
I am fearful. I fear that I will drown in the responsibility of caring for three children. I fear that I will lose myself. I fear that I will turn into one of those bedraggled, shell-shocked, fuzzy hair Moms I see in the grocery store. I fear that I will never be able to leave the house by myself again. I fear that I won’t be able to keep up with my writing commitments, and I love writing. And I really, really fear that I’ll accidentally get pregnant again and produce baby #4. I begin to break out in hives when I have that thought, and then I start researching contraceptives.
There ain’t no going back now, sisters.
No matter what happens, I will keep breathing. I will keep trying. I will keep getting out of bed and loving these children. I can’t believe how much fun Mars and Wick are. I know that having a third will mean some adjustments, just as having a second did. But I adjusted then, and I can adjust again.
If you don’t hear from me post-April, though, go check the grocery store. I might be there, eyes glazed over, wandering the frozen food aisle, needing a little pep talk. Help me get home, get me some coffee, and remind me that change is good.