I was just thinking about posting here, wondering where to start, to begin again, after so much change with no documentation, and I read my profile blurb. ...and loving every minute of it! With enthusiasm. When did I write that? Really, every minute? In theory sure, I love my life. The ups and downs, the battles and rewards. But every minute? Not really.
This minute right now for instance, not loving this minute I'm in.
The kids are getting ready for bed. I can't tell you how many times I've said "now go brush your teeth" in the last 10 minutes. Should I even have to say that anymore? I mean, they do it every night. You might think they'd remember and just do it again. It's been a long day. Doors are slamming as I type. Repeatedly. Over and over. Open and close. I don't have the energy to see why. The baby is strapped to me in a sling carrier, finally sleeping after a fussy evening. I smell like spit-up. My hair is a mess. I have on the same clothes as yesterday because a shower wasn't in the cards today, and these stretchy pants and over sized shirt are some of the only things that fit this post-partum frame of mine.
Did I pray today? Not really. I probably started to several times. My brain is a jumbled mess of to-do lists and unfinished thoughts, and somehow prayer, real prayer, has been relegated to a "when I have the time" status. I realize the danger of this, but haven't figured out a way to fix it. I teeter between exhaustion and elation, contentedness and overwhelmedness, sometimes hourly it seems. I live one day at a time, hour by hour, minute by minute, at times just surviving. At the end of the day I can look back and count successes, but many failures. I try not to succumb to guilt over the failures. Tomorrow is a new day.
Do I love my life? Of course. Just maybe not every minute of it.