There’s this giddy little evil part of me that says… what if this is it? Like… what if we stop having kids? Like… I could actually be done and this be it and I could potentially not have to go through any of this again and that little person inside of me is very happy about that prospect because um this is so hard. It’s not fun most of the time and I am just not living the fantasy I thought I would be. I’m not crafting all afternoon with my kids and gallivanting around the forest.
I’m swimming and my nose is just barely above the waterline. It’s like I am so close to drowning, but still technically alive.
Don’t get me wrong. These two kids are the biggest blessing and joyful little things I wouldn’t trade for the world. But I admit to fantasizing about going to sleep and waking up in 7 months when life has steadied itself somewhat and I have lost 40 pounds and here we are.
Aging quicker than I thought possible and putting everything on hold temporarily. Doing my best to “thrive?” Like, what even is that? I don’t know. But I’ll tell ya what…I’m not sewing my daughter pants or knitting my son a sweater or painting the doors in my house. Nope. I am planning out if we are going to manage a home cooked meal while I am pumping milk from my yeast infected boobs and calm a sick baby and stay one step ahead of my very intelligent girl and doing my best to keep God involved in the raising of my children and the raising of me.
But, dang they are precious. So precious. And lovely. And adored. I guess it’s just not very fun to grow sometimes. It can be uncomfortable and painful.
