>

…answer the phone no matter who’s number is displayed on the call display. I am the queen of screening phone calls, and not just if it’s a 1-800 number. I really, really hate the phone. In ezmy’s perfect world, we would all chat through email and messenger services. Or just regular old letters! I miss letters.

Now, I didn’t always hate the phone. It’s strange to think about, but there was a time when I simply adored talking on the phone. I remember getting my own phone line when I was 14 (that’s right, land line not cell phone…no one had cell phones and somehow we all survived…) and I was on the phone day and night. And I’d talk to anybody. About anything and, usually, about nothing. I used to sit in my bedroom window, smoke (being sure to blow the smoke outwards as if it made a lick of difference), and chat on the phone into the wee hours of the night about so and so’s boyfriend, and did you hear that so and so got pregnant, and that so and so’s parents kicked them out, and isn’t so and so dreamy and blah diddy blah blah. This was a time before messenger or ICQ (remember ICQ!?); maybe things would be different if Angst-y Teen Ezmy was a teen today. But back then, I remember those phone conversations being oh so important to my day. They made me feel connected and needed (I was usually the person who people called to vent to. Come to think of it, I’m still that person through email).

So why do I hate the phone so much now? Because I’m no good at it. ‘It’ being talking on the phone and making chitchat. I’m just no good. I’m awkward and bound to say something stupid/boring. If I have anything to say at all – I mean, my life is pretty straightforward these days with nothing much exciting going on. And while I could talk for days about how cute and fascinating my child is, I’m pretty sure this would fall under the category of dull as ass to most people.

This is not to say that all of my phone conversations are awkward and horrible. For example, I talk to Lady Heather fairly regularly and these conversations are fine. But generally speaking, I talk too fast and I get the distinct impression from phone conversations that I’m boring the person on the other end of the phone. Not always, but often. And that might all be in my head but whatever. That’s the thing about emails, see – if what I say on the first go around is stupid/boring/etc., then I can always re-write or come back to it later. I can carefully craft my responses and think up clever sentences and wordplay. I guess I hate phones because I’m not quick on my feet.

But anyway, I resolve to answer the phone if I’m home. And to answer my cellphone. Cursed cellphones. As if landlines weren’t bad enough. Before my cellphone, I could just tell people I wasn’t home. I have no such excuse now. And I can only be changing so many diapers….

>

…write whenever the baby sleeps. I know, I know, I’m supposed to sleep when the baby sleeps. Pfft. I’m convinced that whoever came up with that little gem of wisdom didn’t have babies. Or if they did, then they also had heaps of hired help to do things like dishes, laundry, bill paying, emails, etc. And who are these people who can just fall asleep at the drop of a hat in the middle of the day? Unlike my son, sleeping is not a light switch that I can suddenly just flick on. Yeesh. I tried when he was a newborn, I really did. A. was home for three months and he covered the house stuff so really all I had to do was sleep. But I just couldn’t. And on the rare occasion when I finally did fall asleep, Budsie was up wanting to eat again a couple of minutes in. Eventually I just gave up.

But lately, he’s been sleeping for longer chunks during the day, leaving me with some time to kill. Housecleaning is reserved for one day per week – I refuse to clean more often because then that is all I will do and that’s just no good. So the rest of the week, I’m going to use this time to write blog posts and whatnot.

Sounds like a good plan…but I can’t think of anything interesting to write about at present. So I’ll vent instead. About this:

So a couple of months ago, my circle of friends suffered its first post-baby casualty. I’ll preface this by saying that I don’t have an enormous group of friends in Ottawa proper, in part because I met some fabulous ladies and gents during grad school and this was all the company I really needed (or had time for) at the time. A. has friends from work that have become my friends over time, but still the overall group is pretty small, relative to my previous lives in Wolfvegas and Toronto. I should also note that I think it’s pretty amazing that it took six months before the first casualty happened – I have some pretty awesome friends who quickly adapted to baby momma ezmy. They rock.

Anyway, a casualty did occur and though I hate to admit it, it was the one I was a) most expecting and b) most dreading. Sigh. It all went down one evening in November, at LG’s birthday party as a matter of fact (an unfortunate innocent bystander, that birthday party). I won’t get into details, but the argument can be boiled down to the following paraphrased statements made by each party:

MM: Boy trouble.
Ezmy: Oh dear. Help?
MM: What should I do?
Ezmy: Maybe stay single for bit. Get hurt too much. Often in relationship. Tend to date douchebags. Try something new in the form of single.
MM: *storms off*

(LG and Ezmy chase down MM)

MM: Always date nice guys. Always screw it up. New guy not as nice methinks. What to do, what to do.
Ezmy: *proceeds to list a number of guys that MM has been with who were not nice and who therefore did not deserve MM. Also note that MM did not screw it up, they did with their douchebaggery*
MM: *storms off*

(LG and Ezmy chase down MM)

Ezmy: Trying to be good friend. Refuse to sugar coat this. Those guys were douchebags.
MM: LG is my friend. You are not.
Ezmy: *:O*
MM: I mean, you’re just in a different place. Baby. Husband. Can’t relate.
Ezmy: I’m gonna head home.

That about sums it up. We haven’t spoken since. Sigh. I’ve never been in a fight that’s lasted this long. And I’m not really sure what to do about it. I have nothing to say. I’m not sorry, so I can’t call or email and say that I am because it would be a lie. But I hate the tension. It’s palpable tension that oozes through Facebook in particular. Damn you, Facebook. Back in olden times I wouldn’t have this problem. I wouldn’t have to see MM’s status updates or comments or pictures of the party she just had that I was explicitly not invited to. I would just not talk to her for awhile until the next social gathering that included us both, at which point there would be awkwardness all over the place but awkwardness of a different, and more importantly distant kind. That is, the problem would be Future Ezmy’s, not mine. Argh. And I really shouldn’t be that bothered by this. I mean, MM and I had been growing apart for awhile and there were a few things bothering me about our friendship for a few months before The Fight. But I am bothered. I don’t like knowing that there is someone out there who is that pissed at me (even though I am still pissed with her too). And it really grates my cheese that there is no real reason to be pissed at me. Or maybe there is, but she didn’t reveal it that night. Drama, drama, drama.

Ah well. I should be thankful that only one friend has truly fallen by the wayside in this whole have a kid business. Babies can be a real drain on a friendship, particularly if that person doesn’t have one. Which is a shame because I hold me childless friends most dear – they are my touchstone to a world outside of this diaper/teething/naptime madness. And I want to hear all about that world because I miss it. Argh again.

>A while back, I purchased the above onesie at Old Navy. Budsie was 100% boob-fed at the time but I thought the controversy surrounding this onesie was a little ridiculous so I picked one up by way of protest. I don’t even shop at Old Navy (my problems with them have less to do with the promotion of bottle-feeding and more to do with who makes their clothes…which is, I think, a bigger issue). I’m all for boob-feeding but as I’ve indicated in a number of posts, I’m also all for a women’s right to choose and if boob-feeding doesn’t work for you, you shouldn’t be made to feel bad about it. Some of the comments that came out after this shirt was released….yeesh. Things like ‘formula shouldn’t even be available without a prescription’ or ‘women who formula feed are selfish’. Shut up. Seriously. I think it’s really important to be supportive of breast-feeding mothers, and I agree that there isn’t always enough support out there. But this holier than thou attitude from women who have successfully breastfed their children really grates my cheese. Sometimes it’s just not possible, for various psychological and/or physical reasons and maybe, just maybe, we should all just shut up and mind our own children.

Anyway, so I got the shirt. Someone also gave Budsie a shirt that said “I’m a breast man” so I think he was nicely balanced out, politically speaking. He still wears both of them. I really enjoyed boob-feeding him while he was wearing the formula shirt. Contrasts make me happy.

Then, a couple of months ago, Budsie got two teeth. Cute little bottom teeth. Cute, SHARP little bottom teeth. And boob-feeding, well it became kind of challenging. All through November we battled, him chomping and me trying to train him not to. I looked up every trick out there, consulted breastfeeding guides, talked to folks, but nothing seemed to work. And the biting got worse. By December, it was pure agony. It got to be so bad that the very idea of feeding him was starting to give me the willies. I could hear the Jaws soundtrack in the back of my head whenever his mouth came near me. The final straw came when we were on xmas vacation in BC and he drew blood. “That’s it!” I said, “no more boob.” I mean really. Why should I have to sit back and let my boobage get mangled? I have scars from this and that just doesn’t seem right. If I’m going to have scars on my boobage, they should be from some crazy piercings I got back in university or something. Not my child’s teeth. And I shouldn’t be scared of my baby. So I tried some formula. It went down the hatch no problem. Indeed, I had him weaned to formula in two weeks (I did continue boob-feeding him at night until about a week ago when he started sleeping through the night).

And may I just say, PHEW. Call me selfish, but I’m so much happier now. My boobs are all mine! I can wear whatever I want! I don’t reek of boobmilk all day long! And you know what? My little munchkin is just as happy as he was before. He’s a big kid, he eats an enormous variety of solid food and he guzzles back Similac like nobody’s business. It’s not ideal, but whatever. One day, he’ll probably eat Kraft Dinner too. And drink something awful like Gatorade or Coke or (oh I hope not) Red Bull. On the scale of things, a few months of formula isn’t going to kill him.

So I’m ignoring the dark looks I get from women at the coffee shop when I whip out my bottle (this is hilarious to me – judged if you boobfeed in public, but also judged if you bottlefeed…should children just not eat then?). My kid and I, we have a great relationship that I can honestly say has improved on my end ever since I switched to the dreaded Similac. Woot.

>
Before I had a baby, I never gave public washrooms much thought. They were in my life, and I used them like everyone else. Sure, when I was in there I would think to myself “why are women so gross?” (because we are. Men get the grief but as someone who has cleaned both men’s and women’s washrooms, I’m here to say women are the grossest). But until recently, my only thought concerning public washrooms had been that there never seemed to be enough of them.

Since having Ewan, I’ve developed a complex relationship with public washrooms. On the one hand, I really, really hate them. For a number of reasons, some of which depend on the washroom. Which right there is irritating – I shouldn’t have to guess at what facilities might be available to me. But I digress. The average public washroom is rarely properly equipped for strollers and mums. Sure, there’s a change table in them most of the time, but the garbage can is always far away from the table (if there is one at all – I’m thinking of you Rideau Centre). Also troubling is when the stroller, even the little umbrella stroller, won’t fit in the handicap stall. What do you do with the kid in these circumstances? I’ve never been able to figure it out. Generally, this means I just have to hold it (if I have the smaller stroller, I might be able to fold it and balance The Kidlet on my knee…awesome). Safe, no? Sigh.

If there’s a family washroom, things are a little better. But family washrooms themselves vary widely with respect to their usefulness. For example, the spiffy one at Toys’R’Us has a loo for mums and a nice spacious area with a rocking chair for breastfeeding, room for a big ass stroller if you have one, and a change table with a diaper genie right next to it. The one at St. Laurent shopping centre (same complex) ups the awesomeness with a couple of microwaves and extra chairs. Swish! Sad to say, this is not the case everywhere. The most pointless family washrooms are those in most airports. Calling these loos “washrooms” would imply the presence of a toilet. Nope. Instead, all that is in these rooms is a change table, a VERY smelly garbage can, and a sink. Great for baby….not so great for Mum who still has to go and will therefore still have to maneuver that damn stroller in the regular washroom. And don’t even get me started about having more than one kid in these circumstances. Argh.

But on the other hand, I love love love public washrooms. Why you ask? Because, on days when I’m out with Andrew and Ewan, public washrooms are the only place in the whole world where I can have absolute peace. At home, see, when I’m in the loo, or anywhere really, and I can still hear the kid, I can never really relax 100%. But in a public washroom, at a restaurant say, I can’t hear Ewan. He’s off with his dad and I’m far away in my only little world. I have to admit, there have been days when I’ve spent way too long washing my hands or re-doing my hair (harder now that it’s short) or re-applying lip gloss, savouring the sweet but all too brief minutes of time that I get all to myself.

Sad, really. But there it is.

>I’m a big fan of New Year’s resolutions. Always have been, really. Of course the nature of my resolutions has changed. When I was ten, I wrote down “practice more for dance class” in my resolution notebook; when I was 21, this changed to “stop binge drinking and going on dates with total losers.” The best year for resolutions was the start of 2006 when I resolved to a) stop just sticking with a bad situation because to change it would be temporarily uncomfortable and b) stop assuming that people sucked without first getting to know them. These resolutions gave me the courage to end the worst relationship idea since pickles and ice cream as well as to strike up some of the best friendships (and one marriage) I’ve ever had. A year of resounding success amidst some 20 years of relatively unsuccessful resolution endeavors. Sigh.

The problem, I’ve found, with making New Year’s resolutions is that the results are not immediate enough. Or maybe they could be but the resolution itself is too broad (“meet interesting people” or “try something new” or “read more”). So even if you work on the resolution at different points throughout the year, you never really feel like you’ve accomplished something that you could, say, tick off a totally fictitious (…) resolution list with a satisfying ‘CHECK!’.

Well this year is going to be different. This year, my primary resolution is to make daily resolutions. For example, January 1st’s resolution was to start something new so I set up a geocaching membership and am taking Ewan out for his first treasure hunt on Wednesday. January 2nd’s was to start cutting back on my two tin per day Club Soda habit so today I opted for water or lemongrass tea. Tomorrow’s resolution is to ‘get in touch with family’ so I’m finishing up my thank you notes for xmas and calling an aunt I’ve been meaning to call for a couple of months. In the end I’ll have 365 different resolutions but I’ll also have a daily sense of accomplishment with these small tasks. Satisfying, no? We’ll see.

Off to bed now. Perhaps at some point this year I should resolve to start sleeping when Ewan is in bed…hmm.

>Done! Man I love new haircuts. They really are the best way to get over the where-is-my-life-going blues. Well, maybe not get over, but definitely ignore for a few weeks. Sweetness.

Also handy on this front: Sexy AB visits. My darling fellow Wallace Woman bussed in from Montreal yesterday for a quick little hello and a bottle or two of wine. Awesome times were had. Perhaps my favourite thing about WW visits is the reassuring feeling I get from the conversations. We’re all up in the air; none of us have our shit together. But it’s great because we’re all putting plans in motion and in the meantime, we have each other to bounce ideas off of, complain to about roadblocks, etc. Most helpful.

Oftentimes, after a Sexy AB visit, I like to watch a movie or flip through an album that reminds me of those crazy days when we lived in residence or Toronto together. These activities help to extend the glow from said visit, conveniently numbing the all-too-grown up messiness that is my life at present. Last night I chose to watch “Reality Bites”, a popular flick for Sexy AB and myself and one we used to use as a yardstick for measuring the potential of a guy we were dating. For example, if the guy in question said that he identified with Ethan Hawke’s character, Troy, or at the very least admitted that Ben Stiller’s character, Michael, was kind of lame, then he was rewarded with more dates. If, however, he identified with Michael, he obviously just “didn’t get it” and was more often than not, dumped.

Well.

What the fuck is up with Troy and his holier-than-thou, I’m-too-sexy-for-my-Nietzsche attitude? And poor Michael! He’s still a weeny, but it’s sad because there is someone out there for him, someone better than Whiney Whinerston Lelaina. The Lelainas of the world deserve the Troys, as far as I’m concerned. “Oh whoa is me, I got fired because I purposely tried to and then I couldn’t find the job of my dreams at 23. Oh no, my dad gave me a BMW. Oh, and two hot guys like me. Waaah.” Gawd.

I’ll admit, there’s a lot about this movie that still appeals to me. For instance, the theme of ‘why haven’t I done more by now’…I get that. The anticlimactic nature of completing a BA (where are my 6 figure salary job offerings?)…I get that too. And some important issues are touched on, such as sexual freedom, helplessness, and the crushing weight of too many options. All good stuff. But the good stuff is overcome by the product placement, the caricatures of men (although early twenty-something Ezmy certainly did run into the odd Troy or Michael, and really did hate when the Michaels tried too hard and the Troys didn’t try at all), the waah waah romance, and the fact that you just want to throttle Lelaina.

I think Sexy AB is right – the reason this movie no longer works for me is that I’ve lost my angst (I texted her in horror when I realized that my love for Troy was waning while my sympathy for Michael was growing). Afterall, I have nothing to be angsty about. I no longer have any reason to sit in my room, burn incense, write bad poetry about dismal life events I can’t begin to comprehend, and chain smoke out my window. And I’m too busy for such self-indulgent behaviour anyway. Sad, really, but I almost miss it. What a deliciously selfish and simple time of my life that was. Maybe that’s why I want to throttle Lelaina. I miss the days when she was me.

>I’m looking to make a change on the hair front. I’m super bored with my long hair, largely because I don’t have the time to spend on making it look good. Big, thick wavy hair needs constant attention, or at the very least time to diffuse it. And my time is a valuable commodity these days, one best used for showers, writing, and sleep. So lately I’ve been switching between plain, frizzy ponytail and plain, less-frizzy plaits, neither of which are very attractive and both of which lend an air of teen mum that I find unappealing.

Also problematic is Ewan’s newfound love for my hair. I have the best hair for grabbing – plenty of flyaways to grab at, and long. Hence the plaits – they hurt less when pulled. Ewan likes to pull large clumps of hair out of my head (ouch!) and then shove the hair in his mouth. Leading to the third problem with this hair: it’s gagging my son on a daily basis. He’s going to cough up a mum hairball one of these days and I’m going to be ill. Furthermore, not only is it gagging him, but it’s making its way into his diaper, onto his receiving blankets, everywhere. It’s like cat hair only way, way worse.

So it has to go. But how much? And what should it look like? I’m really not sure. Generally speaking, when I make drastic hair changes, it’s because I’ve done something ridiculous to my hair that can only be remedied by a do-over. Case in point: in 2002, I accidentally dyed my shoulder-length hair a vibrant purple (it was supposed to be copper red…don’t ask) and ended up cutting the dye out and bleaching it because I worked at Starbucks and purple hair didn’t work for them (oddly, bleached out sad blonde fuzz was ok…I don’t see how that’s any more “natural” than purple but whatever). This mistake was followed by the leopard print fiasco, after which the only option was to shave it all off. In 2007, I suffered selective amnesia regarding this experience and dyed my long hair jet black, only to realize that growing this out was going to suck. I shaved it all off for charity.

But this time, it’s my choice. And I have some nice, simply highlighted hair to work with. So do I go straight to Pixie or do I make a stop over in Chunky Bob town? I’ve been admiring Carry Mulligan’s hair lately, as well as Emma Watson’s new pixie…hmmm. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated. I need a big change…help!

>I spend each morning reading to the kid from the Globe and Mail, CBC, and BBC news. I do this while sipping coffee from my pumpkin mug and munching on almond butter coated toast. It’s a nice routine but it only works if I’ve had more than 4 hours sleep. Anything less and I need to ease into the day a bit; this means I still open with coffee but Budsie and I watch a little tellie before our news. Lately this tellie has been The West Wing. We own all seven seasons and I feel as though this show, while Americana-y and a bit cheesy, can be educational. I explain different aspects of the American government to the kid while refreshing my own brain on the subject. I draw parallels between the show and current political events in the US. Yeah, I’m one of those mums.

But this morning we’re watching an episode from season three and I’m not in the mood to chat about it and I like to think that Budsie isn’t in the mood to learn just now. Neither of us had much sleep last night so it’s going to be a quiet and slow morning. Indeed, he’s all maxed out across the front of me right now, snoring. So I’m sort of just lying here, half paying attention to Josh and Donna, and half looking out the window. And while lying here, I’ve noticed a squirrel. I wasn’t paying much attention to him at first but now I’m watching this little squirrel with a great deal of interest. He has gone up and down the tree outside our house at least ten times, each time carrying up a branch that is bigger than he is. Where is he going with these branches? This is a relatively skinny tree – does he have a tiny home in it and how is he fitting all those branches in? Or is he building a small cabin up there? I can’t see the top of the tree so I don’t know. Why does he need to be so busy? I’m always fascinated by little animals being so busy. I guess winter is coming. Huh.

This little squirrel is starting to make me feel lazy. Right, I’m going to go do something. Organize a cupboard or bake something or write a letter. Something to make me look busy to the squirrel…

>I remember when I tried to write my first book. I was five. I took a handful of printer paper from a stack in my dad’s office, tore the hole punched edges off (remember doing that!?) and folded the pile in half. I drew a picture on the front page and then proceeded to write lines of cursive on each of the following pages. Except that it wasn’t cursive because I didn’t know how to handwrite yet. Instead it was just line after line of curvy swooshes. I proudly presented the book to my mum and insisted that I was going to be a great author one day. She was unimpressed, I think, by the waste of paper and I remember her being distinctly disinterested in my talents. Not in a mean way, just in a have-three-kids-live-in-a-crap-small-northern-town kinda way.

When I was 12, I again tried to write a book. I titled a page “Chapter One” and then set about concocting a brilliant story. I lasted a few pages but couldn’t seem to get out of the Shire, so to speak. I was very much into the scenery but most unsatisfied with the dialogue. I felt limited by my vocabulary and life experience. And frustrated because I had so much to say but no way to say it. I gave up and decided to focus on math instead. A terrible idea, in the end.

I spent most of my teens writing uneventful short stories and terrible poetry. This actually might account for why I hate poetry so much now. At 18, my first real effort to write the next great Canadian novel began; it continues to this day. I have been picking at the same idea, the same word file, for 12 years. I’ve saved it on disks, both floppy and compact, emailed it to myself, and printed out portions for safe keeping. I’ve started, deleted, and started again at least a thousand times. I’ve deleted characters in fits of rage and cancelled plot lines when they struck too close to home. I’ve made the mistake of writing large segments while deeply depressed or deliriously happy, only to revise (read: destroy) these segments weeks later. I hate this book. I love this book.

I need to finish this book.

So that’s part of the plan, I think. In addition to the swathes of essays that I’m writing about nothing – essays that will some day magically turn into rejection letters – and the daily-ish blogging, I’m going to set about finishing this twisted tale that has haunted me since I left home. Exciting…

>I’ve been having a difficult time adjusting to my new job as stay-at-home mum. Which is putting it mildly. I feel unbelievably restless. Hardly surprising, really, considering I’ve spent the last year in a state of pregnancy or postpartum and the entire time I’ve been a) stuck at home and b) uninspired due to illness/lack of sleep. Over the course of the last month, however, I’ve sort of become myself again. And I feel as though I’ve just woken up from a long, strange dream and that now it’s time to get down to real life. But wait! Real life isn’t what it used to be. There’s this little boy who needs, you know, raising and whatnot. I’ve been by myself for two weeks now and each day has been more mind-numbing than the one before. But also amazing – amazing to watch this kid do new things and organize his little mind. Oh the conflict.

Part of the problem, I think, is that I haven’t been managing my time properly. I tackled this new job the way I do all jobs; by setting goals and making lists associated with specific times. 7:00am? Breakfast. 8:15 to 9:00am? Workout. 9:00am? Feed baby. Oddly, I knew this wasn’t going to work. Babies are predictably unpredictable. They care not for sensible schedules. And every day is different. All of this I knew. And yet I habitually went about trying to follow this strange little schedule that I got from god knows where and the end result was that nothing aside from baby-raising got done for two weeks and I woke up each morning feeling increasingly empty. No run, no forward movement on the career front. Sigh. And then I feel bad about feeling empty – shouldn’t being with the cutest boy in the world be enough? Double sigh.

What I need to do, of course, is let go of time and order. Or rather, my ridiculous interpretation of time and order. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these notions about when to do certain things and the order in which to do them. For instance, I don’t like to watch movies in the middle of the day. This activity is, for me, a night time one and my whole day feels thrown off if I watch one at say 2:00pm. I only floss at night and I only use toner in the morning. I don’t workout if I’ve already had a shower that day. Why? I don’t know. But it means that I like to workout in the morning and that if I sleep in, and then have a shower, I won’t run later in the day. And then I’ll feel bad for not running. Because I’m amazing at laying guilt on myself thicker than pea soup.

On top of all of this, I have always been obsessed with routine. I spend crazy amounts of time scheduling things – Mondays for running and housework, Tuesdays for weights and writing, Wednesdays for appointments, etc. Indeed, I think I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to establish a weekly routine and live by it. I take great comfort in plans and schedules and start dates. And I like to start new things on Mondays but if something goes wrong on the Monday, and the shiny new routine isn’t started, I will give up for the rest of week. Sometimes not even on purpose. And then I’ll feel bad again. It’s all quite complicated and ridiculous. Well, it was complicated and ridiculous before I had a kid; now it’s just plain stupid.

Anyway, I’ve decided that I need to just let go of this time/order/routine nonsense. Because being a successful stay-at-home mum and getting some stuff done for me is going to require some finesse on my part. Letting go is going to require significant effort; I am, after all, trying to break a lifelong habit of making schedules and planning my days minute by minute. But I’m off to a good start. Instead of waiting until Monday to test out this new approach, I started today. I went for a run around 5:30pm or so, AFTER having a shower, and now I’m squishing in some writing while the kid sleeps. And I’m not going to plan tomorrow. I’m just going to make some loose goals – go for a run, play with kid, write something, and organize one cupboard. In no particular order and at no specific time. This feels weird…