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PMS, a full moon, and Christmas aren’t a good combo. Even with a whole lot done, I felt incomplete and irritated at everything this past week. Not feeling the ho ho ho in the holiday tone. Here I had a beautiful baby, everything to be grateful for, and I felt resentful. What?

I want to judge it and yet I can’t when it may be telling me something needs an adjustment.

I’ve been feeling more jazzed than ever to move ahead on my blog. Take the next step. I planned to use all the pictures I’d already taken, enjoy an afternoon or two of all out creativity and take more pictures. I’d have blog posts for days.

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Then life happened to me. A ton of “do-this-befores“, baby interruptions, and regular chores. When I missed my dental cleaning appointment, I had a fit. I would not be writing all those blog posts I’d intended to. The timeliness of them had passed anyway. I still had no help with the baby. And all the “Making Big Blog Plans for 2014” posts was making me feel crappier.

By yesterday, 4 days until Christmas, I was saying, “I think I might need some time off.” Time to contemplate 2014, paint my fingernails, read a magazine, create time and brain space. Relax. Be. Breath.

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I keep thinking of a scene in the Color Purple where Oprah’s character Sophia drives her mistress’s car to visit her children. She hasn’t seen them in a heartbreakingly long time. It could be the holiday season. Only when they get there, the woman freaks out. Sophia has to drive her away unable to spend time with her loved ones. It’s heart wrenching. And familiar. To be within reaching distance of the one thing that will make you happy and have to leave it.

I desperately need creative time. I know I went and had me a baby and that is what it is. There are ways around this attention conflict. Expectation adjustments are up to me. Meeting my needs? Up to me. Letting things go that are standing right in my way? Up to me. Do your best, let go of the rest.

My present to myself will be to list out my responsibilities as if they were expenditures and overview my task budget. I may be spreading myself too thinly. And diluting my potential for greatness I feel capable of. I suspect I may just need my own permission to be great.

(And for a little Christmas Picture Prettiness, check out my final Christmas Decor Extravaganza post from last year.)

6 Comments

  1. Creative time, I hear you. I could use an extra 12 hours in the day. Wouldn’t that be nice? It would still probably get filled up with obligations. I think you have to squeeze it in, especially with a little one! Hang in there. Merry Christmas, Shalagh! Love, Amy

    • Hey Amy! Happy Christmas.I think my time management blows. But a clone or just paid help and the money to pay would be great.
      Love,
      Shalagh

    • You know Marg, I sat with it. Because I knew it was coming from a place I needn’t visit. And I purposefully avoided the computer. And what I realized is that I have some unfinished goals to write out and that may be exactly what I was longing for. Plus maybe some hormonal balancing. And a little more babysitter time. and a nice bottle of wine alone with my husband.
      You are so very sweet and I thank you for any wisdom you throw my way.
      Thank you so much and Merry Christmas my faraway cousin.
      Love,
      Shalagh

  2. Sigh. I’ve been in a mood all day…similar.
    Tonight at the dinner table I just looked at my 5 year old and put my head down on the table. My creativity went out the door as this semester of school and my sons asthma continues to drain me. There’s just not enough time.

    I hope you perk up and thanks for the post.

    • Oh my Keia, the asthma is a scary stressful thing. And school on top? We all seem to be living our own self-imposed hells sometimes. Barely keeping it together until hormones and holidays want to shove us off the cliff. Does it help to know that our combined misery makes me feel better? I think Christmas ending made me feel better. Thanks so much for saying something, anything. Happy and sad comments are all good when said aloud.
      Love,
      Shalagh

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