"Take me where the loons are calling" (a Connie Kaldor reference no one will get) and Motherly Guilt

Picture yourself on a sandy beach on the shore of a beautiful Northern Saskatchewan lake in the Autumn. You are sitting on a large plaid blanket, wearing your favourite wool sweater which provides the perfect amount of warmth for this time of year. You've just put down one of your favourite novels and are sipping a hot beverage of your choice. The water is calm. The sun is slowly setting and its reflection on the lake is magnificent. Everything is still. Until you hear the gentle "whoo-ing" of a loon somewhere in the reeds. The sound is beautiful. The moment is beautiful. Life is good.

Now. Picture me. Around 2:30 this afternoon. Still in the bathrobe I have ventured to remove from my body for a total of 15 hours over the past 5 days (besides sleep). I am nursing a 24 pound 6 month old boy on my couch with the blinds wide open (luckily a large birch tree covers most of the window, so that the people getting their hair cut across the street don't get a free show along with their cut) who decides that a good way to nurse is to latch on for about 3 seconds and then fidget and look all around the room for the next 10. I am surrounded by a house that I have not been able to clean for the past 5 days because of the illness which I thought had gone away yesterday, but has now moved into my throat and chest. (This is also the reason for the bathrobe, though I must say I am known to stay in my pyjamas longer than most stay at home moms. Regular hygienic activities have remained constant throughout these days, however.) I look around a see piles of books and stacks of papers -- opened mail. Receiving blankets. Infant toys. A pile of hand-me down clothes from a friend. (BTW, thanks Ang!) Some Halloween face paint. Various piles of extremely small objects that my daughter enjoys playing with -- a Dora sticker here, a pile of rocks there, a Polly Pocket shoe, two tall candle holders fashioned to be a house for said Polly Pockets. A melange of shoes at the front door. A plastic bag.

When what noise do I hear from the stillness and serenity of this moment...? Why also the sound of a loon. Only it's not a loon. It's the whining of my 2.5 year old who has prematurely awoken from her afternoon nap -- like way too soon for a good day, let alone a day where I'm feeling like this. The noise repeats itself at intervals which themselves are annoying. (Seriously, she sounded exactly like a loon.) Finally she speaks. And various forms of "Mommy!" "Maaawwmmmmeee!" "Mommay!" emerge from behind her closed door. And I nearly, almost, was on the verge of... but didn't lose it. Praise the Lord that with just a few yells of "Go to sleep!" "Be quiet!" (not even major threats), she went back to sleep.

However, that was enough to bring on my third set of tears of the day (which was followed by a fourth set, upon recounting the situation to my mother). It's all just so tiring! And you know what's the most tiring of all? Not the housework. Not the breastfeeding. Not even the diapers or the whining. It's the motherly guilt that goes along with all of it. If I'm cleaning the house, I'm feeling guilty for not paying attention to the kids. If I'm playing with the kids and teaching them new things, I'm feeling guilty for the neglected dishes I will ask Marc to do when he gets home. If I'm feeling frustrated with the kids, I feel guilty because I know that I have good, calm kids for the most part. And if I'm feeling sad and frustrated about all of this , I'm feeling guilty because I know that all of this is just mundane, "no big deal" kind of stuff. I feel guilty that there are people I know (let alone in the rest of the world) going through major life crises right now, and I'm getting overwhelmed by the fact that there are countless toys under my bed and my bedside table is one big pile of papers, hair elastics, and a lone Barbie shoe. And right now, after venting (and doing the dishes and having both kids asleep in their beds), I feel better. My mind is cleared. I know I can do this and deal with them and the house. I know this is a time to be cherished, and that the time for going out into the world and helping others will come, when my children no longer need 24-7 watching. But I need to know how to get that perspective in the middle of the call of the afternoon loon, you know?!