I never thought I would become a mother at the age of forty-four; but now that it's happened, I have absolutely no regrets.
However, I do wish that I had listened harder when I was pregnant and my husband (already the father of a 12-year-old) talked about how little time to myself I would have, not just for the first few months of my baby's life, but for the first few years.
The hardest thing about being a new mother is reconciling oneself to the fact that one's personal time is so extremely limited. The only way to cope is to pare down one's non-baby activities to the absolutely essential. In this regard, I've been doing better in recent weeks, but only a little. I still manage to fritter away vast juicy gobs of time sending useless emails, cleaning, organizing papers, checking the weather reports and, yes, writing this blog.
To that end--I hope to spend no more than fifteen minutes a night writing this damn thing from now on. (I love writing it, don't get me wrong--it's just eating up too much of my personal time.)
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