resonated with me so much. I think the phase I’m in right now is the one Lydia labels “Bad.”  It isn’t that Bad, I don’t want to get too dramatic about it. It does come hard on the heels of “magic,” though, and stands in sharp contrast to it. Suddenly – overnight – my baby is eating food, sleeping most of the night, almost crawling. It’s weird to not be needed by him in the same way. He would rather climb on me like a jungle gym now than cling to me like a tiny monkey. When we nurse, unless he’s really tired, I feel like we’re having a small wrestling match. He puts his fingers in my mouth and laughs when I pretend to eat them. (That part is awesome. We have a joke!) He takes big handfuls of my hair or skin and yanks. (Not awesome.) A week ago he never wanted me to put him down. Now he wants to be apart from me, lying on the floor, yelling at his toys.  

So it’s weird not to have a little tiny baby anymore, and yet to still feel so hamstrung. It might take more than six months to figure out how to reconfigure every aspect of my work and social life around my new role as a parent, it turns out! While that shouldn’t be surprising, it adds to the overwhelming feeling I have under any circumstances of falling behind, not having enough time or brainpower to accomplish everything I want. Except now it’s like, can I accomplish half of what I want?  Can I figure out how to not wear clothes that are basically pajamas at least a couple of times a week? Can I remember what my book was about?  

This week I went to Manhattan for a meeting and a lunch, and I got to run into stores and do little errands between the two things. I wore a plaid shirtdress, Gap maternity leggings, a sweater that could stand to be drycleaned or lint-shaved, an unfashionable coat and a big backpack with my laptop in it. Midtown was full of women whose impeccable clothes shone with care, all those clean black fabrics. I felt damp and rumpled and in a shop window I didn’t quite recognize myself. I had a flash of how much care I used to put, years ago, into my appearance – not recently, like, more than a decade ago, when I barely had responsibilities and wore eyeliner on a regular basis.  It sounds superficial but I have to get a shred of that person back, or at least the more recent iteration of her who wore real pants and got manicures.  Every minute I’ve had away from my baby I’ve spent looking at this screen, straining to work as much as possible. I always know what time it is. Right now I have 25 minutes left and I’m going to use those to work. Next week, though, I’m going to use babysitter time to buy jeans that fit. My brain feels like a wrung-out sponge anyway, so fuck it.