I think I absorbed a weird sort of version of motherhood, one where I'm supposed to be somewhere, always. Not literally somewhere, although apparently we're meant to be doing plenty of that too, but somewhere further along than wherever I happen to be now.
I should be building a better life, making more money, creating a beautiful home, giving my child interesting experiences, keeping on top of school, work, dinner, and laundry, while also somehow remaining a person with hobbies, friends, and nice skin. There is always a next thing that would make our lives slightly better, and I am very good at finding it.
The annoying thing is that I actually like ambition. I don't want to retreat from the world, and I don't particularly want less. I want to travel, learn things, make money, and make our home beautiful. I want ridiculous little luxuries and books I haven't read yet, and probably another lamp I don't need.
But I've started wondering whether I've become so accustomed to constructing our next life that I'm occasionally absent from this one. Because when I look at it without immediately reaching for the list of things I could improve, our life is quite ordinary. There are school mornings, laundry, and work. Something always needs charging. I buy books faster than I read them. Sometimes dinner is lovely, and sometimes I am simply trying not to create another pan to wash. And increasingly, I quite like it here.
