But it's taken on a new meaning for me in the last couple months, because I am no longer "working," because my husband now comes home and even if he does not ask, I feel as if I have to give some sort of accounting of my accomplishments during the day. Most often, I feel this urge when: the laundry basket (with the pack and play "extras" in it, not clean or even dirty laundry) is still sitting in the middle of the living room for the second day; the kitchen table is still piled high with magazines, photographs, Christmas lists, receipts, random notes, used floss that I extracted from my purse; dog hair is actually floating above the coffee table and end table in the aforementioned living room. "So what did I do today? " You understand my urge to explain, what with this incriminating evidence against me. Not to mention the fact that I'm probably wearing the same black yoga pants I've been wearing for the last three days and I've got baby spit-up on my shoulder and maybe some lingering in my hair.
My problem seems to be that if I spend twenty minutes doing something productive, something I can proudly report at the six o' clock confession, I feel entitled to then spend thirty minutes doing something less than productive. Such as checking my email. Such as organizing my email into topical folders. Such as browsing Sephora and creating a wish list - even though I know I won't pass it along to anyone and even though I use the same three color combos every day. Such as browsing around on Facebook. Such as reading my hilarious book (When did I get like this?: The Screamer, The Worrier, The Dinosaur-Chicken-Nugget Buyer & Other Mothers I Swore I'd Never Be) while having a leisurely lunch.
I can't blame it on this little cupcake, who has rewarded me at the end of his second month by taking periodic, peaceful naps wherever I put him.
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