I dragged my feet and the rest of body to work again last week after the holidays were over. We spent Christmas and New Year quietly, and we generally kept to ourselves–tucked away in our new but still suburban home (I guess we will never be city folks). My heart has never seemed to contented. I loved waking up, albeit too early for my taste (must be getting old), and pottering around. My days would be full preparing food for my little family, cleaning up, playing with the little girl, watering plants, doing laundry, tinkering apps on my phone when all is quiet, putting up my feet, and then doing the cycle again.
I wish I could have more days like these. Many days now, I dream of staying at home, and concentrate on raising my child and keeping house. I want to bring her to school, do errands for the house, help her study, put her to naps.
I want to seriously take up baking and gardening (but I must have the faintest green thumb ever).
I hope we save enough so I don’t have to work. More than the physical weariness I feel every time I go to work, I always feel the emotional battery draining me. I long for a respite from all that madness. I want to find more reasons, other than it pays the bill, for me to put up with all that hullabaloo.
For now, the respite comes only every weekend. The week days seem endless.