When I had babies that would cry and slobber and need me constantly, I would sporadically get free time. My mom would stop in, unannounced. She was an erratic and benevolent saint that would declare, "I'M HERE!" Then scurry around my disheveled house, stacking things and emptying my dishwasher. Then she'd say, "go, GO!" And swat me away with the preschool drawings clutched in her hand, "I'll be here for an hour and a half. Go and do something."
Oh, the pressure! At which point, I'd wander into my bedroom and consider swapping my activewear for jeans. But I'd think, what am I going to do exactly? Is there a yoga class? Maybe I should get my nails done? Get coffee alone? Wander the bookstore? Go for a hike? I'd stare at my tired face in the mirror, entirely arrested by choice. Then settle on going to Target for detergent and comfy pants.
Cut to the present time, and LOOK! I have some free time right now! Right this very minute. It's Sunday, Pat took the boys somewhere, and I'm home with my daughter and her friend as they make cheesecake. For safety reasons, I have to be home, like to remind them that you can't microwave metal, or if they get their hair caught in the stand mixer, I can cut them free.
But I'm weirdly bored. Like should I clean the house? UGH. Or organize inside my bathroom cabinets? BLAH. Fold laundry? YIKES.
What is it about having precious time to myself that translates into this need to be productive? Free time equals pressure. All the pleasure of freedom is stripped away, and instead, I'm stressed and frustrated and, if I'm honest, a little hungry…?
Am I the only one who is like this? Even if I'm on a trip without my kids I feel all this pressure to explore as much as possible and be productive and move. To rest and veg out feels gluttonous on a level that I'm uncomfortable talking about.
Sit all day by a pool?
I'd rather be dead.
Lay on the beach for hours and hours?
Kill me now.
You found my teeth!