xbox and dirty dishes

If there has been an overwhelming theme underlying our first semester of child-rearing, it may very well be 'expectations'. As in, you shouldn’t have any expectations for your time, as these will likely lead to frustration and eventually a breakdown of your otherwise blissful family habitat. I’m not trying to sound like a cynic here, just a realist. Anna and I have found for instance, if you expect to get some chore or another checked off your list before you make your way under the covers for the night, and then fail in doing so due to an atypically cranky baby demanding your constant attention, or maybe because of an exceptionally happy baby demanding all of your interest, you’ll most likely find yourself lying awake in bed thinking gratuitously about how many windows didn’t get cleaned instead of maybe, I don’t know, say, sleeping. And then you’ll end up taking your sleep-deprived frustrations out on others, namely your family, who is the only assembly of human beings actually required to listen to your rants less they become the subject of the next. The best way, I have found, to enjoy your time at home is by taking it one day at a time. One hour, or one minute at a time, if necessary. I’d like to think that Anna and I have done a fairly decent job of keeping our home in order, all the while maintaining something that resembles our personal life b.b. [before Ben]. And I’ve found that keeping our expectations low, when considering what we think we can accomplish in a day, has made us happier people.

Now, those A-types out there [myself included] are probably starting to protest that you’ll never succeed in life if you don’t have higher expectations, and I would normally join in the chorus, but I’m only talking about having expectations for your use of what would normally be leisure time. Time, which is now spent making giggly faces at your grinning infant, which, in my opinion, IS success in life.