Neurotic Monday morning

I’m not sure where the first half of October went. I’ve been busy with work, but my paychecks don’t think I’ve been that busy. I’ve had a few doctor appointments, done some craft projects, went to a conference, and somehow the month’s half gone.

I have spent a fair amount of time feeling guilty for not being busier, though. Like this morning. I didn’t want to get up at 5 and freelance, so I lay awake just long enough to justify staying in bed. Basically what I came up with was this: I likely would not have taken on anything I could finish by tomorrow, which is the last day before invoicing. Conversely, my daughter was snuggly and my son was wiggly, and my opportunities for cuddling them both simultaneously are numbered. (I just have this feeling that she’s not going to want to sleep in our bed once he arrives. She may not want to sleep in this house for the first few months. Just a hunch.)

Unfortunately, by the time I justified sleeping in, I was awake. So I lay awake, cuddling my kids and thinking thoughts. Many, many thoughts. Enough that I wonder if I was truly awake for all of it. I finally decided that I must be; I don’t worry about the kinds of things I worried about this morning while I am asleep. In my sleep, I worry about exams in college classes I didn’t know I was enrolled in, or exes that pop back into my life for no reason whatsoever. I don’t worry about professional stagnation, or neglecting my side interests, or missing out on my kids’ toddler years in my dreams. But I’m certainly good at fretting over them while staring at the ceiling at 5 in the morning.

So I decided I’d get up and blog about it. At least that’s productive fretting. Right?

I just feel like I’ve dropped the ball on everything. In trying to do everything I want to do, I’m accomplishing nothing. And it feels like half an effort is worse than none at all.

And then I remind myself that I am pregnant. I really should cut myself some slack.

It’s actually nice in a way, all this worry. Keeps me preoccupied, so I don’t fret about the baby so much. He’s not as wiggly as his sister was (yet, my mother says), so it’s easy for me to jump to the conclusion that there’s something wrong. If I had more free time, I’d probably sit and stew about that all day. As it stands, it’s more of a passing thought in the ocean of panic.

Sometimes I wish I could harness this nervous energy and do something outstanding with it. Seems such a waste to burn it all worrying.

But the extra snuggle time with Anya was nice.

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