I Put the Pro in Procrastination.

I am a God of drawers left open. You can often find me searching for my keys, my self. On average it will take me 11 hours to unload the dishwasher, and 3 weeks to reply to your text. I can’t remember the last time I actually folded the laundry in the same week that I washed it. I can’t remember the last time that I washed my hair. I had a baby 10 months ago and yet I still look 6 months pregnant, because even a consistent gym routine is too much to ask of me. I always say I’m going to take more time to write but I never, ever do.

Sometimes despite the best intentions, I struggle with the follow through.

I am a mess. Tightly wound. Slightly neurotic.

I want nothing more than to complete the 50 or so unfinished projects I have written down in my journal. I want nothing more than the ability to unwind after 12 hours of parenting. But come 7pm, every ounce of energy has escaped my flesh prison and in that moment I want nothing more than to sit in a dark room with a glass of wine and stare at a blank wall.

I don’t want to write. I don’t want to think. I want to refresh Instagram 300 times in a row and look at the same photos until I fall asleep.

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Try as we might to cover it up with positive op-ed pieces from Huffington Post, we often shame ourselves into thinking that we’re alone in our experiences. That we are the only ones who are overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with love. Overwhelmed with exhaustion. Overwhelmed with the gnawing realization that we are responsible for the safety and development of another human life. So overwhelmed that we simply don’t take the time to do the things that fuel our creativity and ignite that spark in our souls.

It’s the unwashed dishes. The dirty bathroom counter. The 250,000 toys scattered all over the crumb flavoured floor by a drunk toddler. Moms (and dads) who can’t seem to fall asleep at a decent hour because there is just too much on their mind. Meals to plan and play dates to arrange. Feeling the coils of the day wrapped around their insides.

There is no moral to this story except: I see you. I see you out of the corner of my eye feeling tightly wound and it’s okay. Find 30 minutes of silence and remember two things:

  1. We are lucky to have kids, our health and our capacity to love so hard.
  2. You hid chocolate in the freezer. You can eat it now.

As for me, I am beginning to understand that just because I am living for someone else doesn’t mean I stop living for myself.

So maybe I will finally start dancing again, or get around to reading those 20 new books on my shelf. Maybe I will organize my pantry or alphabetize my record collection.

Maybe I will finally unwind.

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