For a moment yesterday I felt like Superwoman.
Really, the feeling was good for most of the day — Helena was at daycare, I'd had a productive morning of billable work, the house was clean, dinner under way.
We are achieving normalcy. J-F and I both are lazy by nature and tend to feel overwhelmed to the point of paralysis regarding just about anything that needs doing, but we're pulling ourselves together.
I've instituted a schedule of chores, which, 2 days in, has been held to. All in an effort to free up free time, particularly weekends. Why didn't I do this before? Now we have grocery night, laundry night, bathroom-cleaning night, cat-brushing night, etc. I'm very excited about this. It feels so. . . productive. Like the world is suddenly manageable.
Helena's a bit sniffly, but in fine spirits. She started her music classes, making a foray into the world of percussion. She's learned a new song, in French, about apples, coincidentally her current fruit of choice. We've had reports that she's standing up to the daycare bully — there was bound to be one — not just standing her own ground, but coming to the defense of others. The group leader says she's never seen that kind of behaviour in one so young. When the troublemaker was kicking one of the girls, Helena stepped in, warning, "Touche pas!"
She makes me proud. I'm not convinced I have a right to that feeling just for providing a little genetic material and making sure she's fed when she's hungry. She's a good and wholly remarkable person with or without me. And whether I deserve to or not, I feel proud.
Then came this moment yesterday when I popped out for a brisk walk for a break (to return a DVD — I sure do love them Coen boys, but Ladykillers was a little slow; I dozed off midway), and there was a spring in my step, and I felt pounds lighter from the weight of the world having been lifted just a little, and everything (my body and my life) felt streamlined, and I smiled to myself, thinking, "I'm a mommy. A pretty good mommy," like it was my little secret to hold against the world.
I can do this. The whole freelance editor, working mommy, organized urbanite thing. I can do that. And I feel sexy, too.