The urge and actually finding time to write are two different things entirely, however. With our recent move, potty training, teething, taking the kids outside to play, keeping them occupied, there has been little time...ok, none at all for me to satisfy my itch. Writing has always been therapeutic for me and when I looked down to see my fingers torn to shreds (compliments of my teeth), I realized I need some writing therapy. Bad. I'm apparently stressed about something and I wish I knew what it was. Wait, I probably do.
I can only guess it's because I'm having pretty frequent contractions and I'm not even in my third trimester yet.
Maybe it's guilt over having to discipline Punky for pooping in her pants (hey, I gave her two weeks and it's time to get tough).
Maybe it's the mounting stress of a bigger house to clean. I cleaned all day friday, looked around that evening and it looked like I had been sitting on my butt all day. I sort of feel like I'm drowning. I haven't mopped my wooden floors yet and today marks 5 weeks in our new house. I HAVE mopped the kitchen floors but it already needs it again. And don't get me started on vacuuming with the little dirt devil of an upright we have on the shag carpet. Ugh. I could go on and on. I'm nesting something serious right now and I wish I could take a vacation and come back to a spotless house that cleans itself. I guess everyone does, though, right?
Maybe it's the fact that Hubby and I CANNOT agree on any names for this new kid of ours.
Or hey, maybe it's all of the above. My energy levels are zapped. I feel like a heifer. I'm the size I was when I delivered Punky and Chicken and I still have over 12 weeks to go. I seriously canNOT imagine what the rest of this pregnancy is going to be like. I don't even want to think about the stretch marks, either. Double UGH.
Well, for now, I'll enjoy the spring weather. I'll enjoy watching the kiddos play outside (and ignore all the scrapes they get every.single.time.we're.out.). I'll forget all about the poopy pants and the accidents we're still having every day. I'm going to clean as much as I can until my body tells me no more and forget the rest. If it gets bad enough, well, I'll ignore that, too, or hire my friend who cleans houses to come do it. And yeah, I won't stress that we're going to be calling the new baby "Number Three" or "New Baby" until it's fifteen. I WILL NOT stress any more. Hmm...that was easy to type, if only I could make my teeth believe it for my finger's sake!