Running a household and keeping a family organized is serious business. And the way you and your spouse approach it can sink you or save you. Today, I'm giving you a glimpse into how we jointly manage our household and what's worked for us.
The Back Story:
Shortly after we began a gluten-free lifestyle, we subscribed to a weekly produce box from a compilation of local farms. We chose what produce we wanted, and the box was delivered to our doorstep every week. It was incredibly convenient.
Except for choosing the produce each week. And then deciding what to do with it.
Brian and I share meal planning and cooking duties fairly equally. I didn't want to choose each week's produce and plan meals by myself. But trying to make the 2:00 p.m. Tuesday order deadline for our Saturday delivery was becoming a problem.
One question that's been on my mind a lot lately is this: how long am I considered a "new mother"?
If I had to guess, I'd say you're considered a new mother until your kid turns one, max. But even now, with a barely-five-month-old, I feel like I'm expected to be an old veteran. I mean, my kid breastfeeds like a champ and sleeps through the night. I've lost the baby weight and successfully transitioned back to working from home. Why am I complaining about feeling lost? I basically have the holy grail of babies!
A couple of months into my work-at-home-mother journey, it became obvious that something needed to change. I had the time and ability to do everything I needed to do. But somehow, every day was a disaster. Every second of my time was taken up, but somehow I was getting nothing done. And my nerves were frayed to the breaking point.
I washed dishes while I waited to hear back from colleagues or interview sources. I checked work emails while feeding and playing with Graham. When I got a few minutes to myself, to refill my tank, all I wanted to do was sleep. By the time Brian got home from work, we'd eat dinner, and then I'd hand Graham to him and go upstairs to get a few, elusive quiet minutes to myself - inevitably interrupted by a screaming baby who wanted his dinner.