I wouldn't know what to do with myself, given time to myself. I’ve been spit out the other side of an identity crisis, and my forehead cursor still blinks PROCESSING… PROCESSING… PROCESSING… frozen, hung. I’m a grey mass, a robot set to continuous play. I hover and leap and sing on cue. I scramble cheesy eggs and fill sippy cups and dispense Teddy Puffs. I empty the dishwasher, start a load of laundry and toast toastletts, all with a static-cling baby koala-beared to my leg.
Commuters blink and end up twenty miles further down the highway, driving not while asleep but while on mental standby. Likewise I looked upon my son at 8:30 AM this morning, fully dressed and breakfasted, as he methodically emptied the kitchen cupboard one soup can at a time. Did I do all that? Is it so natural now? So automatic? Apparently so.
Where does this boundless energy come from, that light we pour into the well-being and growth of our kids? Why is there none to spare for us? Wouldn’t we be better mothers for it?