I’m Tired By: Catrina Chatelain
I’m tired. I am really tired. I know, I know, you don’t want to hear it. Keep it to myself, right? Everybody has their stuff, and it’s just as big and important as my stuff, so nobody wants to hear anybody whining about stuff. But geez, I am exhausted! And I can’t shake this sneaky suspicion that everybody else around me has figured out how to make this work much better than I have. I also can’t shake the thought that I’m so tired-exhausted mind you- because, how do I say this…oh yeah, I’m old. That’s right, bitches, I said it. I am old! Old-as-dirt old. Old-as-the-hills old. I use-to-babysit-Jesus old. At least that’s how I feel. I recently returned to school full-time, and I must admit, I truly underestimated how challenging it would be. Not school itself, but school plus the ADHD/LD prepubescent 10 year old, the drawing-on-everything, not quite potty-trained, almost two year old, the husband, the cooking, the dishes, the laundry, on and on and on… The thing is, I just don’t recall feeling so slow and behind five years ago. In fact, five years ago feels like 50 years ago from where I am today. And almost every day my husband slips in a reminder of how badly he wants one more baby… HA!
I’m really beginning to worry about how run down I feel. I can’t seem to catch my breath, or a free minute, and I’m not sure how much longer I can go on like this before something gives…and chances are good that it’ll be my hip. Uh huh. I didn’t stutter, my hip! Since I had my baby my hip has been getting worse and worse. Ol’ Stiffy is how I refer to it, because I have lost a great deal of flexibility in it, and I’m betting cartilage as well. I’ll be finding out shortly when I hobble my way to an ortho doctor. I can’t believe I’m having hip issues!
Which brings me back to that possible 3rd baby situation. My husband and I have decided to take another year and then try for it. If it goes as planned, I will have a newborn when I’m 42 years old; and an eight year old when I’m 50, and a nervous breakdown when I’m 51. I love the idea of having another baby, but my body shutters at the thought. When I compare me at 31 years old, crawling through miniature obstacle courses with my toddler, to me now at 40 years old, with a toddler whose toys I kick along the floor until I can maneuver them into a spot that requires minimum bending down for me to pick up… well, you get the picture.
As I write this, my toddler has splayed herself on the floor in some half-split configuration, intently coloring on something that looks like a contract, something really important. Oh well, I hope it’s not, because there’s absolutely no way on God’s green earth I can bend down and pick it up. She just looked up at me with those big, brown eyes and said, “Mommy, sit!” patting a spot on the floor next to her. I just laugh hysterically. As if, kid. As if.