Work-life balance

I confess that I am very bad at this.

Whenever I work at something, I can't really stop till I've got everything down pat. This means forgetting to eat or drink water, burning the midnight oil, night-owling (something I do rather well), neglecting people, neglecting nature calls, going on blogging hiatuses, what have you. It comes with having a long runway when it comes to kick-starting my work. I often take a long time to put my thoughts together. To decide what to do, to decide how to do it, and to decide to start doing it. I procrastinate. And then when I've finally gotten the ball rolling, I am reluctant to lose the momentum. Plus work always gets more and more intriguing as you go along. You know what I mean?

It used to work out quite fine. (Even my husband got used to my ways.) But not anymore ever since I became a mother.

I am now a workaholic haunted by a guilty conscience I never seemed to have. A guilty conscience that nags at me constantly. And I can't seem to make peace with it.

I feel bad from the very second I find myself awake in the mornings. Why did you sleep so late last night that you didn't wake up any earlier? You could have spent a little more time with S. 

I feel bad whenever I play with Sophie and find myself depleted of energy as I chase her around the house. You really should have slept more hours. Not young anymore. Can't function on 4 hours of sleep, you know. You could have taken her for a longer walk. 

I feel bad each time I leave the house in the afternoons (after telling Sophie that I will see her after her nap). I feel bad for anticipating my time-alone so eagerly. For looking forward to juice my brain. I feel bad when I feel bad that I'd have to stop working so that I can return home. I dislike cliffhangers of this kind.

I feel bad when I drive home in the evenings - simply because I feel like a terrible mom for having spent so many hours away from home.

You name it.

I don't know... maybe I need to be set free. I fear judgment a bit too much. Particularly, the judgment of my daughter. I am afraid that she might tell me one day that I am a disappointing mother. And I shouldn't be because... I never judged my mom growing up. I just loved her for her face, her hands, her smell, her voice, her kisses, her cuddles, her time with us. And I understood somehow, that she was doing the best she could in the name of love. Even if it meant the annoying and perplexing rotan overkill - in my opinion. Lah.

But perhaps, it is also time I stuck to the healthier, more balanced lifestyle.