This afternoon it took me double the time to vacuum our entry way.
We live in the country and have a mess of kids. It’s so dirty. There may be snow but somehow blobs of moss, rocks, half whittled sticks and other crumbly detritus makes it way under the shoe racks and stuck to the wall.
As I was vacuuming my two year old was sitting behind me turning the vacuum on then off, on then off, on then off. Quite a jolly little game for a two year old. I on the other hand spent most of the game with my forehead resting on the shoe rack, waiting it out.
This feels like a metaphor for my life these days. The metaphor is only starting to rankle and wrinkle me lately. I blame it on my free falling hormones. I am familiar with my hormones when having babies and the first year or so of breastfeeding but beyond that I don’t have any experience.
Yesterday I was visiting a friend and we were talking about how out of sorts we have been. I likened it to how I felt after a miscarriage. Stopping and starting. A cup of patience, a teaspoon of patience. Content mom, hair standing on end mom. It’s a game of waiting it out, I suppose. Finding the level. A body in it’s late thirties is light years away from the one I inhabited in my mid-twenties. I can feel in myself the incomprehensible seeking I saw in my friends that are where I am now.