I am bloody sick of making decisions.
They’ve never been my strongpoint. Ask anyone who has ever been to a restaurant with me. My idea of hell is going to the shop for someone with the instruction ‘get me anything,’ or ‘get me a chocolate bar, I don’t mind which one.’ I can’t do it. You need to tell me exactly what I need to get or expect me to take hours and be close to tears when I return.
But now, in addition to making decisions for myself I have to make them for my son. What he’s wearing, what he’s eating, what toys to pack when he goes to his grandparent’s house, where to take him, how long to be there, whether to put him down for a nap, how long to let him sleep. The list goes on, decision after decision after decision.
And truth be told it started before he was born, when to conceive, when to tell family, when to accept I needed to wear maternity clothes, where to give birth, what clothes to get. The list goes on.
Hubs asking me what I wanted to eat on Monday very nearly tipped me over the edge. Perhaps it’s not just the decisions that are getting to me, it’s the stress of always thinking of another human being because he needs me to do that for him. Every decision is fraught with feelings that this choice might screw him up in the future. That it will make people think I’m a bad mum. No wonder I’m feeling on edge. I used to be able to please myself. That was nice.
But then I remember my ‘mum roar’, it’s been a little quiet lately, but our little boy needs us to make these decisions for us and frankly I should enjoy it before he starts telling me ‘no’.
In other news:
Took Wills to the zoo, he pointed at a monkey and shouted ‘DADA!’
Captain has been back to vet and cost us a fortune (again).
Hubs and I are looking forward to a weekend with no plans, I would say we’ll have a lay-in, but I think we all know that won’t happen.