It is a peculiar trait of mine that, when faced with mounds of work to do, I either buck up and get to it like I've recently become acquainted with crystal meth, or I feel so immobilized that I cannot even decide where to start, and thus nothing is accomplished. Kind of like a deer being frozen by the oncoming lights of a truck full of unwashed clothes, dirty bathrooms, an undecorated Christmas tree, and an unbalanced checkbook, all covered up with a flapping tarp of Childrens' Christmas Expectations and Dreams.
And so I am here blogging right now, because I can't decide where in my house to even begin. Do I tackle the bathroom that needs a biohazard sticker on the door? Or do I wash the kitchen floor before my kids are permanently stuck to the sticky spots that are growing in number and strength. But maybe I should just get moving on the laundry since Older Girl ran out of school socks yesterday (I don't know where she found the socks she has on today, nor do I want to). Or I could just ditch the housecleaning altogether and work on all the Christmas card addressing, and tree decorating, and cookie baking, and teacher gift-basketing that I have yet to finish (and which is littering up the whole dining room). Hmmm . . . I'll figure it out as soon as I finish this post.
Rob says this indecision, this paralysis in the face of Too Much, is actually a symptom of my struggle with my postpartum depression. I think about how bad it might be if I wasn't such good friends with my generic Zoloft, but maybe it's time to up my dosage because something's got to give. It's not that I don't try to get things done -- believe me, I have read every book and tried every scheduling system out there. I've also simplified, streamlined, cut things out, ditched the excess, etc. And all these things work for a while, until my brain chemistry just seems to get the better of me.
The good part about being medicated (besides, you know, not spending my days curled in a fetal position on the bathroom floor, crying, and choking down Oreos, while telling my children to "go away from Mommy") is the perspective, the ability to look and see that this is temporary. It's something impossible to see when you're in the thick of it with no help.
So I'll eventually get it together, hopefully in time for Christmas, because a Valentine's Tree just doesn't have the same appeal for my kids. I'll start with the kitchen . . . right after I read a couple of my favorite blogs . . . baby steps, people . . .
PS: Who is the patron saint of housework and/or Mothers On The Edge. And if you tell me St. Jude or St. Rita (lost causes, for those who don't know) you can save your breath, they've already heard from me.