prepared

Reading about the bag got me thinking about lists and getting prepared and organised. Actually I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Thinking there was a time in my life when I was very organised, and being organised gave me great pleasure. I loved lists and organisational systems and planning, and revising all of the above. Can I admit to alphabetising my books? To colour coding my filing system? To collecting uniform screw top jars for my pantry over decades? You get the idea. Scary stuff.

It's easy to blame the demise of the organised life on the birth of a child, it's certainly been a serious kick in the pants for me in that regard, but there have been other things which have contributed to the erosion of my managed self. In hindsight I think that packed bag, returning home so largely unpacked, was a watershed. It made me realise how much of life (especially my new babied life) was nothing like I expected. How much of the energy and time I spent planning that bag and it's contents was lost, and for no good reason. How planning was no longer going to insulate me from the unknown.

I've always held that planning was worthwhile because the time spent getting it right upfront paid off over the long term. How much easier is life when you can locate your keys/favourite socks/coordinating fabrics without switching the lights on, when your christmas presents are wrapped before you even start thinking about the menu planning, how much anxiety is dissipated by knowing you aren't going to be caught out? But when the planning no longer pays off, what is the rationale for doing it, especially when there are always so many other pressing drains on your time? What happens when the planning (or lack thereof) becomes more anxiety provoking that simply dealing with the shit as it happens?

Don't get me wrong here, I didn't change personality overnight. I didn't lose my love of the list, or stop using them. I haven't given up my various organising systems. But increasingly I recognise that I do little mental calculations about where I can save time and putting things in their proper place, even devising where that proper place might be just doesn't make the cut. On those days I find myself up to my elbows in piles of junk, or realise that I can't find the stash of children's hairclips I bought Amy 6 months ago I feel a real and abiding sadness. I miss a clean bedroom floor from the days when I didn't just drop into bed barely able to get the clothes off me, forget the use of a hanger, for days on end. I miss the order and neatness, the calm and the sense of command.

But I also think I am quite possibly a happier person by balance. Despite those moments of sadness I care less about the things I can't control, about the expectations not met, about the plans dashed to the ground. And I celebrate the inventiveness and excitement of life managed on the fly. Of worrying less about being ready for the future than missing out on the now. I know a new baby will put this all to the test. Balancing the needs of a pre-schooler with the immediacy of an infant will require more forethought. How do you go with the flow if it's flowing in more than one direction? And how will I deal with the further erosion of what I feel to be an integral part of who I am, of how I like things to be, of what soothes and comforts me?

And straight after the hospital bag comes that other mother of all bags - the nappy bag. This post has already gone on too long, but there's another whole post in the nappy bag, about how you build and maintain it, about whether its a parent thing or a mummy thing, about when you travel light and when you wing it...