Sam said, "The Ruddick household is a bit ragged, lately." We were driving home from Boston, stuck in traffic, I think, and at first I didn't know what he meant. And maybe he didn't even say that, since the alliteration isn't exactly like him, but he said something along those lines, and when I didn't understand, he explained:
"Neither one of us have written since we've been home from vacation; the baby is sleeping terribly so we're sleeping terribly; our house is crazy because the painter has been there every day this week. I mean, last night we nearly killed each other."
"We did? Why? I don't remember that at all."
"You were mad about the laundry. I was mad about the couch."
"Oh. Right. We did nearly kill each other."
So there you go. That's the situation. It's been a hairy week. And though I miss blogging, though I have ideas for posts that swirl in and out of my brain, by the time I have a spare second, I just feel grumpy and a little sad, and all I really want to tell you is how it feels to be this tired, and you already know that, I'm sure. So I haven't said much.
How do you blog the sloggy bits, the parts that aren't shiny or profound, the parts that don't really come out all right? I want to tell you those parts, too.
On vacation, while hanging out with my mom and sisters, I made a joke about my blog being "Deep Thoughts with Deja," and they all laughed, and I laughed, and then I felt sort of dumb. I don't mean for it to be Deep Thoughts with Deja, folks. So I've been all meta-bloggy lately, thinking about blogging, wanting to blog about blogging, which is just a weird thing to do. And then things happen, scary or sad things that I could talk about all day, if you'd let me. But hey, I'm not sure I want to blog everything, you know?
But I'm happier when I check in here, for all sorts of reasons. So here I am, revving the engine again.
This morning the baby woke early. By the time she slept again, I couldn't sleep, and by late morning I was getting all the classic signals that I desperately needed a nap. Mostly the classic signals are these: grumpiness, despair. So I topped the baby off with breast milk and went upstairs and tried to nap, and a nap was not forthcoming. I was thinking about my insanely messy kitchen and the grocery list I'd been composing, and wondering if my cat will ever forgive me for having a baby and sort of ignoring him.
I finally gave up on the nap and came downstairs and talked Sam into taking a walk. We strapped Henrietta into her stroller and I put her baby sunglasses on her, and I felt good. She was adorable--I mean crazy-adorable--in her sunglasses, and it felt restorative to be out there with my pretty baby in her sunnies, walking in the sunshine, waving at neighbors. It seemed like things were going to be fine, nap or no nap.
And then suddenly, I was sobbing. Right there on the corner. Sam and I had been teasing each other a little, and he somehow managed to push the wrong button, and then I was crying. We were both a little baffled by my response. I'm a cryer, sure, but it doesn't seem like I cry much lately, at least not to me. (He probably still thinks I cry a lot? Anyway.) And who knows what to make of that, really, except it's illustrative of how I feel--a bit ragged, you might say, whether I know it or not.
Yesterday, driving home (again) from the city, I started to get uncomfortable. This happens sometimes. It's not quite carsickness, it's car craziness. We're stuck in traffic and I suddenly want to jump off a tall building. My shoes fit wrong and my hair is itching my chin and my back hurts from sitting and I can't breath. "I'm freaking out," I told Sam, and he pulled off at the next exit and stopped the car by some random lake and told me to get out and stretch. I got out, but it didn't seem clear where to go, so I just walked a few paces away and looked at some trees, some bare trees that weren't particularly beautiful or anything, but at least they weren't my dashboard. I took a deep breath. I got back in the car.