Where does the stationary go?

Or, is being a parent just about having to confront all your own idiosyncrasies?

Note: I almost didn’t send this out because part of me thinks I sound absolutely insane, but if this makes one other woman feel seen then it’s a job well done. Plz no armchair diagnosis, the medical team is already very much on it lol.

I’m not sure if this is a universal thing or more of a me-coping-thing, but I know what is behind every door in my house. Point to a drawer, closet, basket, or cabinet and I can tell you what’s in there and whether or not I’m happy with this being its current home.

Take our entryway console table. The second-to-the-top-drawer has everything you need to write and mail a thank you note. I’ve even got a pen in there somewhere. You might think, “stationary… why not in your desk?” No, absolutely not in my desk — the desk is for putting on makeup and jewelry and clacking away on my laptop — certainly not writing thank you notes! I write those in the dining room, which is next to the entryway.

So maybe store them in the hutch in the dining room? I coulddddd, but the idea of storing paper in a “food space” feels kind of off to me, and whenever I need a stamp, I’m normally standing in my entryway — so the stationary should go there.

Now we have 3 drawers to choose from, and of the items in the other 2, I’m reaching for the stationary the most. So by the law of “it-should-be-less-annoying-to-access-the-more-you-use-it,” I’ve put it in the top drawer.

Great. Now when I need to write a thank you note, I can pass through the entryway on my way to the dining room, and if I need a stamp I’m already standing next to where they live. Fabulous. Now I can go back to LITERALLY DOING ANYTHING ELSE BECAUSE THIS WAS EXHAUSTING.

I don’t tell you this story to try and make you think I’m more organized, and therefore, better, than you. I’m not. More organized doesn’t always mean happier and better.

On one hand it’s nice, my house is organized and fairly clean most of the time. On the other hand, I can’t just put something in a drawer, even temporarily, and move on with my day.

Like — if I came home with something that needed a home and I hadn’t figured out where it would go, it would need to live on the dining table (corralled into some sort of basket/tray) until I could devote the time to sit and think.

Somewhere with enough room, in a location I’d reach for it, that was the right amount of annoying to get to as often as I would need it, and that I didn’t need for something else. You might think — “that’s kind of intense criteria to meet every time you bring anything into your home… no?” Yes.

And what’s funny about this is until we had our daughter, I had no idea I was like this. I just went through this list without realizing it, happily moving things to different drawers while listening to a podcast — a place for everything, everything in its place. But now we have a new roommate, and among the many things she demands from us, mental and physical energy are big ones.

So when all of her bath supplies and tummy time mats and sleep sacks and pack and plays started showing up at our front door, I couldn’t just put my AirPods in and organize. She needed all of my attention, and once she was asleep I needed to immediately go to bed too, because who knows what time she’d be waking up that night. (Side note: I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of time passing when the baby is sleeping and you’re not — it’s like whatever you’re doing better be important because you could be asleep!!!).

Okay anyways, the dining table was getting full and I’d run out of trays to corral like-things together. This is the part of the story where I’d love to say that I relaxed my vice-like grip on my home and the need to control my experience inside it, learned some flexibility and chose rest — except I didn’t! I spent almost every night of the first 3 weeks of her being home staying up, organizing, and moving things around because I kept changing my mind about where was “right” for what.

And where did that leave me? Saying goodbye to our night nurse without actually having rested much at all, crying on the sidewalk next to my husband and our new baby because I was so tired (both physically and of being in my own head), and feeling like I’d spent all of my purchased “recovery time” manically moving the pack and play from one corner to another.

In the months since then I’ve experimented with just “putting something away” temporarily (sometimes with more success than others). Some days I’m so tired I can’t remember where something lives, so in a way that kind of breaks the loop. Is being a parent just about having to confront your own stuff because there’s no more room/energy/time in the day to hide? I love it and I absolutely wouldn’t trade it back (that goes without saying), but my goodness I didn’t know this tiny lady showing up would mean I’d have to address my need for control.

Signing off from the trenches, very much still a work in progress.

Love,

Sarah