They told me, lots of wise-seeming people, including some who had as many kids as I do, that I’d be exhausted until my youngest went to school and then a whole new world would open up, starring a freshly energised me.
Sixteen years later, I’m still waiting.
If my 35-year-old self with a baby and three little kids knew that with only two people in the household I was still knackered, she would be disgusted.
There is a full-time jobs worth of things I no longer have to do, from getting four babies, toddlers, primary school kids, teenagers out the door each morning in time for crèche/kinder/ school, to reading digesting and processing the multiple bits of paper that each of them brought back from crèche/kinder/school, to dropping them all over the place for sport commitments and then picking them up again. It wasn’t unusual for me to clock up 130 ks on a weekend.
And that’s before you even start feeding, clothing, cleaning up after and emotionally supporting a family of six.
Compared to those years, my domestic life is now a breeze. I should be full of bounce, just looking for more things to do, be involved in, commit to. My creative juices should be going gangbusters. But all I am is tired.
For years now, it seems, I have been setting myself little goals by which time I will get my mojo back. Mostly, these are work-related. ‘When I just get through this particularly busy patch, I’ll catch up on sleep and I won’t feel so tired.’
‘Once the Synod conference is over,’ is the big one that loomed most recently. And then, Synod was over, and I had ten days off, really restful and recuperative days where I blobbed and slept and read and walked and hung out with husband and did all the things that restore me to wholeness. I went back to work with, as one colleague pointed out, the spring back in my step. For about 24 hours. And then I was buggered again.
There were two long weekends in the offing, however, for which I had high hopes. Last weekend I spent four nights in the country with my daughter and son-in-law at one of the most restful places I know. This extra long Cup Day weekend I am at Anglesea, sleeping a lot. Surely after these two mini breaks, I will be completely recovered from the exhaustion of Synod. Somehow, though, from past experience, I doubt it.
Next I am pinning my hopes on the longest summer holiday I’ve had for years – three whole weeks over Christmas and into January. Surely after than I will be back to bouncing enthusiastically out of bed every day?
Or not. I’ve always been a morning person – praying and exercising before anyone else was up. These days my routine of a lifetime is shot to pieces. I simply cannot get out of bed early any more.
I don’t suffer from chronic fatigue. I’m not depressed. I do the right things to keep fit and healthy. So why am I ALWAYS. SO. TIRED?
Every day I long for bed. On weekends I count the hours to my after-lunch nap, one of the most delicious time of my day. During the week, I long for it to be late enough that I can respectably hit the sack.
Is this constant state of weariness a 21st century ailment? Is the pace of everything just too fast for us to keep up? Is there something subtly toxic about the way we live?
Maybe it’s the price you pay for being deeply involved with a range of good places, causes, people, for being profoundly engaged with life?
Maybe it’s simply the ageing process. Maybe I am just wearing out and getting weary with a weariness that will only end with death. Indeed, when I think about death these days, it doesn’t seem so bad. Imagine, going to bed for an endless nap, and never ever having to get up again.