Jan 16, 2014 - By Clair McFarlandI must admit that, at the moment, I don't have much to report for the sake of this column.
As a stay-at-home mom, my literary musings arise from conversations held with my 3-year-old, not from big philosophies, fascinating/annoying coworkers, or from encounters with unique strangers. Such things do not usually enter my life.
My hang-ups have not to do with whom to promote or dismiss, how to improve policies that affect others, or having to return a hundred phone calls. Rather, I am fretted by the fact that I hadn't scrubbed the inside of my dishwasher until yesterday (apparently, mildew is a thing we should care about and discuss on the internet, even though we can't see it), and by the fact that my 1-year-old likes to expose my (pregnant) belly at the store.
Lately, as I prepare for what should be either the last two weeks of my twin pregnancy or the prelude to a why-am-I-still-pregnant tapioca binge, I do silly things --like iron baby clothes, and organize my sons' bath toys by color.
When reports of people doing important things reach my senses, I can't help but feel a little petty with my recent tasks and concerns.
Sure, you could say that I am currently "nesting," which is a common term that means "sacrificing one's mental well-being to the maintenance of household minutiae in order to gain a false sense of preparedness while pregnant."
Personally, I think I'm just going a little batty --cabin fever and chores will do that.
Time to interject: please don't blame The Husband for any of this. He tries to take me on dates and keep me informed of what the grownups in the world are discussing, and he also doesn't know or care about mildew in dishwashers.
But alas, I feel too prenatally cumbersome for dates, I often find the grownups' talk disheartening, and I have simply grown too comfortable in my own little world of small concerns.
With this must come a degree of self-absorption, for if I write the word "I" one more time, my nausea will compel me to stop writing and eat a Tums.
It's hard not to wonder whether it matters that there is someone here to maintain sanitary conditions while the whole world wages wars against itself and decides who has the best shot in the 2016 election.
Will the labors I impose upon myself daily combat our universal entropy in any noteworthy way? Do they give security to anyone, besides my sheltered self?
That, I may never know, though I also hope to forget these questions as soon as I regain my rightful exposure to the outside world. (Which I'll do as soon as I can see my feet again.)
However, tonight, as I watched my sons organize colorful lumps of Play-Doh into the containers of the corresponding colors (oh how imitative they are at ages 1 and 3!), I dared to hope that, one day, they might have a similar effect on the great big messes out there, in the world.
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