I didn’t celebrate the solstice. I wanted to. Instead we spent the day with my husband’s family. Went out to see a movie I only half cared about seeing in a theater. Dealt with the subsequent late, short nap for the sick toddler. Didn’t get as much work done as I hoped. No candles. No peace.
My son has had a cold since Friday and he won’t leave me be, toddler elbows and fingers and knees and snot jammed onto me, into me, all day long. The whining, the tears, the constant need.
I haven’t nearly finished my husband’s quilt for Christmas. The toddler scarf is not done. Nothing is wrapped. I have work to do. I started a very short job I love, but I can’t commit to the continued, expanded, wonderful, fun, resume-building, skill-building version of it because it would require 35 hours a week for the last two months of pregnancy and the first month of that baby’s life. The timing couldn’t be worse.
I am stretched and sad and debating about quitting the only non-temporary job I have because it’s annoying and frustrating and a little soul-killing, but part of me thinks giving up that regular paycheck couldn’t be more foolish.
This should be one of the most comforting, lovely weeks of my year and instead I feel completely lost. I haven’t had a solstice. I’m still wandering in the dark.