I’m feeling ashamed this morning.
Lately it’s been such a whirlwind of activity in which I barely have time to stuff food in my mouth, let alone to breathe without multitasking something or someone around here. And I’ve been rebelling against it, often angry and moody, brooding about the house like a heartbroken teenager.
Moments ago I heard a clickety-clack behind me to see my Baby Dude slopping onto a baby spoon some leftover cereal from the table he’d maneuvered down onto a stool, and he was feeding himself like a little-big-boy, and because I was too angry, back-facing him, slurping away angrily my coffee against the counter like a broken woman in parental-misery for seemingly doing everything myself, I almost missed him doing it.
And when I scurried over to his side to observe, he had this look upon his face that made me feel even lower, a look that asked me if I was going to be “nice” now instead of the Ranty McRanterson I’d become lately. The eye daggers proved it.
I was enjoying the steam permeating my skin as I scrubbed away the remnants of a horrible day yesterday off my aching body, listening to the shower’s hiss as suds tickled my toes, and I thought a lot about how lucky I am to wash everyday when I can, to have a shower, soap and clean towels to wrap around me.
It got me thinking about having to hold my son while they withdrew five seemingly-ginormous vials of blood from his teeny, tiny body. How he may have shook, and cried big, fat elephant tears onto my nervous hands, but how in hindsight we are so lucky to have health care to rely upon in these times of need.
I spent most of my days in a frenetic pace, too fast to appreciate, too hectic to see my day whizzing by my head like a jet. I almost missed my kindergartner telling me of his girl-interest in class or about his getting in trouble with his brother for launching pencils he called “love arrows.” Or my school-aged children discussing soccer moves, my infant’s “mama dada,” or toddler’s sweet girly voice telling me stories of princesses and dress-up fairy tales.
It truly made me realize how much I take our liberties for granted sometimes, and how dumb I am for doing it. Instead of celebrating our family and our freedoms, I was being freedumb instead.
Today was a wake up call.
So yes, I’m going to have to ensure the garbage is out properly today, myself, because the
husband-type-person rest of the family forgot to. I will have to take my daughter’s sandwich to her at school today because she forgot it, AGAIN (and forgot to put meat on it, too). I will have to vacuum for the bazillionth time, do the eleventy-billionth load of laundry, complete with soccer clothes I should’ve had just after the game, AND make 23923874928374 phone calls to housing and car dealerships today, too. Amongst other things.
But it’s my life, my family. Mine. And life isn’t ever going to be perfect, Beaver Cleaver, white picket fence, handed to you on a silver platter. The good, the bad, the ugly and downright bottom-of-the-barrel is going to happen. So long as we’re together, we’ll be just fine.
And so, today, mommy’s going to stop brooding, and stop being freedumb and just LIVE. Be present. Witness. Stop moping over life’s curve balls. Tomorrow, I will get up and do it all over again. And the day after that, and the day after that. And in a week, if my pouty lip comes a-knockin’, someone smack me towards the direction of this post, mm kay?
Never miss a thing! Subscribe today for all kinds of crazy parenting fun!