It started well. It really did. I was determined to begin moving our bedroom upstairs into the attic.
We weren't going to do that yet. We were going to stay downstairs in our old bedroom/the baby's new nursery. At least until spring, if not summer. We haven't even bought her bedroom furniture yet. She's in the bassinet next to our bed, which makes it easier to nurse her in the night. And I planned to use some of our tax return to buy her bedroom set, so there's really no hurry for us to move upstairs.
Well, except ... me.
It seems that giving birth makes me a bit manic. When my son was born I directed that energy outward, visiting parks, pushing his stroller on trails, making the most of the summer weather, and even taking up jogging, which I enjoyed for the first time in my life. This time around, since we're mostly stuck in the house watching the morning PBS lineup and the snow fall outside our windows, my manic energy becomes directed at our home. Each day I have to not only tidy and keep up on the regular chores, I have to accomplish some task that I've deemed "above and beyond," which means that once it's done I won't have to do it again. I need this, to feel satisfied.
Thus, the Christmas ornaments were taken down earlier than I had planned, packed away and re-stored in the attic. Including the new ones I created out of silver and gold ribbons, bows, and beaded hooks that I made my husband take me to the store to buy the day I was released from the hospital. And stayed up half the night making after wrapping all the presents. Yeah, just a little manic.
The toys were thinned out to make room for new ones, and the toy shelves have all been reorganized thematically to soothe both my frenzied ambition and my teacher's need for order. I've even purchased toys and created activities with the express purpose of expending physical energy (both mine and the toddler's), but it isn't quite enough for either of us.
So when my son emptied his dresser drawers onto his bedroom floor, in what was likely an attempt to entertain himself with some grand physical gesture to compensate for the household's sore lack of playground equipment and running space, I decided to go ahead and go through them all for a size check, making bags for the attic and the Goodwill, labeling and delivering them instead of shoving them back in the drawers and smooshing them shut, like I would have before having the baby.
And when I ran out of areas to organize on the first floor, my attention turned upward. And all of a sudden, I felt certain that we needed to move upstairs A.S.A.P. That way, not only could we start to organize the attic (a task that feels just as ambitious and unlikely as running a marathon) (which also means I totally want to do it! Today!), but we could clear the first floor of all our bedroom clutter --laundry piling up on top of dressers waiting to be put away, or dirty on floors where a basket should be, but isn't because it's been left in the basement, the odds and ends my husband manages to collect that have no defined place yet (these odds and ends are endless when you live with an artist/packrat!), the ever-increasing number of newborn baby/new mama supplies (where's that lanolin? didn't someone give me a box of breast pads? we need alcohol to clean my scar and her cord! and cotton balls!), and all the jewelry I've been keeping only semi-organized up until this point-- and create space for a beautifully spare future nursery/guest bedroom containing nothing but easily tidied and well-catalogued, necessary items.
The vision? A place for everything, and everything in it's place. Are you with me?
I took the drawers out of two dressers and placed them --precariously balanced-- on the attic stairs. I cleaned a stack of storage cubes from my son's room and carried them to my daughter's. I dragged the dressers to the hallway, waiting just below their drawers to make that big move to the attic. So far, so good.
But then, my boy: Mommy, I need some-ting.
What do you need, sweetie?
I need some extra hugs.
And so, extra hugs were given.
And then my girl: Waaahhh! (Food. I wants it now.)
And so, food was given.
And suddenly, my husband: The snowblower broke. I need to go to the hardware store.
And then my son needed some-ting again, and so did my daughter, and then my husband: It didn't work, and now I need to shovel the drive.
And so it went.
The attic stairs remain adorned with dresser drawers, the hallway with dressers sans drawers. And the bathroom: sink and toilet cleaned, tub and tile floor awaiting further attention. And the living room: armchair halfway to the guestroom/ future nursery, piled with pillows from the couch while that cover finishes its trip through the laundry.
It's halfway there.
And here I am, too tired to finish a single thing I started today. Except for the beer I'm drinking. And, apparently, this blog post. And, presumably, the night's sleep I'm about to embark upon, until my daughter wakes me with a wail.
Whereupon I will scramble from my warm bed, gather her in my arms, snuggle her tight, and give her the breast. She will open her mouth like a baby bird, latch on, eat heartily, and continue to grow. Fortunately, even amidst the mess I've left in my wake today, there is nothing half-assed about that.