Around the middle of last month, I felt off. Not sick, just cold: I couldn’t get warm and I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the weather change—from balmy to chilly—or the shorter days, that the holidays (and the end of yet another year) are here; maybe it was hormones.
But something about this feeling, about being cold, unsettled me.
And something about all the kids spontaneously and simultaneously growing out of their tennis shoes and wearing pants which were fine last week but are now too short, coupled with the schedule juggling I perform to get them to and from practices; topped by the myriad of emails and papers from school informing me of volunteer opportunities (that I typically say no to) or need to remember—pajama day on Friday!—all in a pile (literal or electronic), buried me.
Something about my house, dotted with second-hand furniture and randomly collected decorations and the responsibilities within it: an ever replenishing supply of dirty dishes needing to be washed, socks demanding to be matched, endless laundry, toys unwilling to stay in their baskets, bothered me.
Something about my new job, with a pull on my already spread thin time, worried me.
. . . I promise it’s not an essay where I make a list of complaints. But I did get really honest. Motherhood isn’t always shiny (in fact, the more time I’ve been a mother the more I realize how messy it is) and I’m okay with admitting it.
To read the rest of this essay which was first published on Coffee+Crumbs, please click here.
As always, thanks for reading. -Sonya