Life is fucking hard, man.
People don’t say that often enough. Maybe because they think they will sound weak or whiny. Maybe because they’re afraid of judgement. Maybe because they are worried that it’s not hard for other people. Maybe it’s just hard for them.
Maybe they’re afraid that if they open their mouths and admit to someone else that life is hard, it will mean that they just aren’t religious enough. Maybe they aren’t good enough for God to make it easier.
Maybe He can’t hear them. Maybe He isn’t even there.
I don’t believe any of that.
I long for Robbie and I to go back in time approximately 10-12 years, back to our previous life when our biggest concerns were as follows:
1. Where everyone was going to go that night,
2. What I was going to wear,
3. And how much sex was too much sex. Wait … never mind. That wasn’t a concern. So really we only had two things to worry about.
Throw in a fear of pregnancy and not having enough money to pay my $350/month rent, and that pretty much covers my early twenties. I want to go back to that time, not because I don’t want my kids or the life that I have now, but because I want to remember what it felt like to be less exhausted than I currently am. Right now, I’m close to being exhausted enough to stop showering, and if you know me, you know that this is MAJOR.
This thought hit me the other night when I was engrossed in watching a YouTube video of someone extracting impacted earwax from a man’s ear. I looked up to show Robbie, but he had fallen asleep listening to an audio book of Game of Thrones.
When I yelled, “What is happening to us?! WHO ARE WE?!?” it made him jump.
The next night, I sidled up to him and purred seductively, “Are you going to watch the rest of this baseball game?” He said, “I don’t know … I might fall asleep.”
I gathered my pillows and went to the couch, wishing for things to be less mid-thirties and more mid-twenties.
This morning I was passive-aggressively flipping through a magazine, feeling angry that I am so tired, that three-year-old children are so irrational, that my husband is just as tired as I am, that I don’t ever have time to write, and that people constantly need something from me.
Most of all, I was angry that I am becoming everything that I said I would never be.
I’m resentful, unkempt, and irritable. I yell. A lot.
I recoil when my husband touches me. I am touched out, talked out, cleaned out and incredibly tired of going to the grocery store. I’m exhausted of feeding people and cleaning up messes and hearing complaints from at least one person at all times, because there are five people in this house and no one is ever happy all at the same time and that includes me.
I’m a jerk.
I was gone for 4 days and it didn’t help. It just made me want more time away. It was a tiny drop in my dried-out bucket. I do my best to care for myself, but I still come up short. I’m being pulled in so many different directions, every day. I am asked to give more, even when I don’t have anything left, every day.
I am a frazzled mom.
That makes me wish that I could travel back in time to when life was simpler. Look how smooth our faces were. Look how close we are standing to each other. His hand is practically on my ass, and who could blame him? No one was squeezing in between us, yelling “MY Daddy!!!”
I want to warp-speed myself back to THIS.
This is why people tell you not to rush your life — because you never know what the next season might bring. It might be really fucking hard.
You might have children stuck to you like agitated starfish for 12 hours a day.
You might have to unclog toilets and wipe up pee and chase small people who are surprisingly fast.
You might tear your hamstring in Kickboxing class because you’re getting old and you didn’t warm up properly.
As I mulled this over today in a brief moment of peace, during which I spaced out and sat completely motionless because no one needed me, I heard a sound coming from the bathroom.
“I bwush my teef.”
That’s what she was saying to me as she held up her toothbrush, smiling that double-dimpled smile that exposes her perfect toddler teeth.
My baby just turned two and can hold full conversations.
“I bwush my teef.”
I stood there and stared at her. It was like I couldn’t breathe.
She’s so beautiful. So smart, so sweet. So cuddly and funny. She isn’t just beautiful because she’s pretty. She’s beautiful because she glows.
I am so grateful.
She held up her toothbrush. “MOUF!!!!” (That’s “mouth” in toddler-speak.)
The thing about seasons is that even on the darkest night, when the wind is howling at your door, there is still a moon in the sky. It’s not all bad, even when it’s fucking hard.
And I’m not afraid to admit that out loud, either.
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