It is 2 o’clock in the afternoon on St. Patrick’s Day.
Somewhere in a dark bar with a sticky floor in the Upper East Side a white guy is intoxicated dancing to “Come On, Eileen.”
And I am peeling 10,000 freakin’ potatoes for a vegetarian shepherd’s pie. I am the only one home tonight who is going to eat it–well, home with teeth–but still, I want to make it. I love how people present such doom and gloom to new mothers, “you’re never going to have time to…”, and the list runs the gamut from cooking to manicures to showering to going to the gym. Meanwhile, only four months in so far and even I can see how ridiculous this is. You’re going to make time for what you want to make time for. If cooking is important to you, you’re going to cook. People were shocked when you were eight days old and I was pureeing a butternut squash for homemade soup–but that was important to me. Food. Good food. Dinner. Yum. Same with writing this blog. Your Aunt Shelley manages to go to Prince concerts. Other people use their times with sitters or help or naptimes or whatever to go do their nails…Here’s my advice to new mothers: What you chose to do with your time is as individual as the children who now consume it.
(Now let me pull an Irish exit, and leave without saying good-bye…)