I’ll save the details of my days for another post, but it’s like Glennon says, a day is a lifetime.
By Friday evening I was at my wit’s end and when I cracked an egg on the counter to put in the meatballs, the egg smashed all over the counter, cabinet and floor including my foot, and I lost it. I fell apart.
Aside from the day I drove Miriam to her induction and got lost on the way, I’ve avoided any major meltdowns in our new home. But I let it out. I cried into the meatballs until Richard came home and I cried into his suit coat. (I’m sure mine wasn’t the first runny nose to encounter the shoulder of his jacket.)
It might not be so bad if all that occupied my mind during the days were the tasks associated with being a mother or even a human being. But our minds don’t seem to work that way. It seems that my thoughts are always preoccupied with the latest tragedy in the life of a friend, or the current crises around the world, or my own faith and spirituality. My mind and spirit feel heavy sometimes with the deeper issues of humanity, and all of the sudden things like three meals a day and baths at bedtime for four little people, feel overwhelming.
Sometimes I feel guilty for complaining about motherhood, because it seems like whining is a luxury, an expression of first world problems. Motherhood is hard, absolutely, but it’s not just motherhood that breaks me on Friday evenings. It’s that life is hard. And even when my life isn’t hard, it’s hard for me to observe other lives that are.
So my body did what it usually does when I work myself into a dither, and my immune system went on strike resulting in a bad head cold accompanied with body aches. Richard took the kids to church and I’ve just nestled myself under the covers, enjoying the sunshine coming through the window and listening to church bells and chatter outside. I feel grateful for a chance to slow down. As cliche as it sounds – just to be alive is a grand thing.