We have emerged from the dark patch of stress and strain of December and half of January (sorry for snapping at you Becca Tippetts!! My deranged state had nothing to do with how the Christmas lights were wound.) I finally feel like I have the right babysitter helping for the right number of hours each week. I’m kind of…dare I say…okay?
So of course my first instincts are to a) cut back on the help that is giving me some room to breathe and/or b) take on any number of new commitments until I feel like I’m barely managing again. I feel guilty for feeling okay. I feel I only have the right to be just this side of total desperation and anything more comfortable is sinfully luxurious. How can I possibly allow Chrissy to keep bringing Fluffy home from preschool twice a week unless I would be seriously buried alive without it? I don’t think I can do it. I think next week I’ll tell her I can start picking up Fluffy again even though it means packing the boys into the car right when they want to be starting their afternoon nap.