I’ve been working so hard this week. I’ve gotten a bunch of work done, which is good, because I’m going to have to pay for gymnastics.
I pulled the trigger and put the little one in gymnastics. And she started this week. It was the most wonderful thing that we’ve done. I should have figured out a way to do it last year, because I’ve never seen such joy in my life. I’m pretty sure that she was the only new child in the class, because they’d say the name of a stretch or an exercise and everyone else would just do it and she would look around and watch them for a second and then do it herself. She was tough and worked hard, like a champion.
And I’ve been completing all or almost all of my daily tasks every day (thank you, Habitica) and the house has never looked cleaner.
But it’s all so hard. I don’t think I like being productive. It’s so hard. I’m trying to convince myself that I’m going to learn to like it. It’s not unlike what I’m telling the older child about her doomed to failure attempt to join cross country. Yeah, she hates running now, but theoretically in time as she gets better at it and gets more endurance she will hate it less and come to love it. I think. Hopefully that will work with this. It’s easier to be the less functional and more self-pitying incompetent Eloise, but that’s not a good way to live. So I’m pushing through what I very sincerely hope are growing pains on this process so I can be a more productive and competent version of myself.