Please don’t scold me for being hard on myself, I mean, I did say “sometimes.” Self-deprecation wise, that’s a big step for me, you know.

Yesterday, I felt motivated. I was all blissed out on having actually left my house two days in a row, and I felt like I could DO things. I felt empowered. So I got all the dishes done, and the sink and counters scrubbed. I wiped down the table and swept the ENTIRE main floor. I pulled out the mop and tackled the worst sticky spots. I put away every single toy on the main floor and tidied every single room. I gathered all the dirty laundry, carried it down to the basement, and started putting laundry through. I folded three loads and carried them to the rooms they needed to be put away in.

By the time bedtime rolled around the main floor of my house looked fanTAStic, and I was at least halfway to caught up on the laundry to boot.

I confess, I started strutting a little. As much as an eight-months-pregnant woman can anyway. I gave myself a few verbal pats on the back where Neil could hear me (and join in, like the smart boy he is), and I climbed into bed to do some much deserved vegging out with one of my favourite books (The Way of Kings – Brandon Sanderson) and one of my favourite guys (the aforementioned Neil).

That’s about when the contractions started. Not serious ones, of course. Not the, oh-heck-we-better-rush-to-the-hospital-kind. But definitely the, um-maybe-we-should-pack-the-hospital-bag-in-case-these-get-any-worse kind. They were right on the cusp between uncomfortable and painful, they didn’t get any worse than that, but it was a MISERABLE evening.

And I could only keep saying, I did this to myself. One, because it’s true, and two, I knew that it was better if I said it than if Neil did. I had overdone it and was paying the price.

So today, I’m looking at the projects I’d like to get done before the baby arrives (21 days and counting!), and I’m reminding myself that I don’t have to do it all at once the way I tend to do. I can do a little here, rest a little there, and pace myself throughout the day. And that’s a hard thing for me to do, because I tend to have two modes 1. ALL 2. NOTHING. It’s something I need to learn in life. How to slip into that grey area between the two and find a way to live there. To not be either doing so little that I hate myself or doing so much that I hurt myself.

I’m thinking of going back to my once-upon-a-time-ago pattern of reading a chapter for every chore accomplished. Baby steps. Balance.

Now excuse me, I really should pack that hospital bag. Just in case I continue being an idiot (it’s all too possible, I’m afraid) . . .

It was then that I decided I would deal with my issues on my own, thank you very much. That probably wasn’t a good call on my part, but I’m silly like that sometimes.

It is a major accomplishment for me to leave my house without being compelled by obligation. Even then, I often find excuses to flake out, miss appointments, and curl up in the safety of my own home where I can predict and control what happens (to a certain extent – I do have 3.8 children, you know).

I’m lucky though. The place we live is pretty ideal for an agoraphobe like me. I can sometimes calm an encroaching anxiety attack by focusing on the sights. Like the GINORMOUS pair of skis our town has on display . . .

And our town is small. Quaint. Charming in good weather. We’re surrounded by an abundance of natural beauty in the form of trees, lakes, and mountains. There’s no crazy traffic to navigate, and it’s near impossible to get lost once you’ve got a feel for the place. And whenever and wherever I go in town, I see someone I know. It’s pretty much inevitable, and I’ve come to love the lack of anonymity here. I’m not invisible and lost in the shuffle. I’m Dr. Neil’s wife. I’m Emma and Becca’s mom.

I’m someone here.

I’m someone when I’m at home too. A very important someone. But I’m a someone who hides from her town, her friends, and the life she could have here. It would take a LONG series of blog posts to explain why, and those who know me well probably have a small idea anyway, but suffice it to say that this is an orange crayon that is perpetually in need of picking up.

Yesterday, I drove to town and bought groceries. It felt good. So good that I actually kept my appointment this morning and went to town again. Soon perhaps, I’ll go to town for no reason other than the fact that I want to. Maybe I’ll wander around the cute gift shop on Birch Avenue and pick out something special for the new baby. Or maybe I’ll brave the library with Claira in tow and let her run around on the huge alphabet map while I drink in that awesome bookish smell that all libraries have in common.

To many, this might not seem like something worthy of report. Umm, yeah Kim, you left your house and you’re patting yourself on the back for it? But for me, leaving my safe place inspires a specific form of terror. My chest tightens and my heart pounds and I try to find ANY reason I possibly can to just stay home where things are safer and calmer. Overcoming that IS worthy of celebration, even if all I did was fill my car with groceries and rush back home again.

Progress isn’t always about how far you make it. Sometimes it’s about how hard you had to work to get how far you’ve come.