Here lies a mother and her children in the aftermath of Christmas “break.”
We’re all sick. We’re all sugared out. The house is a disaster. I haven’t slept in weeks, because they haven’t slept in weeks. And I feel wrecked.
This break has been anything but restful and I am paralyzed by exhaustion.
I spent much of the day wanting to either scream or cry and wishing I could go back to bed.
Just last night I was preaching gratitude, and yet today, in frustration, I found myself thinking “isn’t there more than this?”
More than slogging through the day in pajamas and a robe?
More than wiping noses and having noses wiped on me?
More than being caught in the steady mist of a child’s wet sneezes?
More than mediating arguments over who gets which cracker?
More than holding a coughing toddler all night, and then all day, when I myself just want to be held?
More than picking up dirty tissues from all over the house?
More than making meals that aren’t eaten?
More than fatigue, headaches, and menial household work?
But there was a time in which the life I am living now was the definition of the “more” that I once longed for.
I dreamed of rocking babies and toddlers. I dreamed of the sound of children’s laughter. I dreamed of morning snuggles and bedtime hugs. I dreamed of being sprawled out on the couch together as we played games and watched movies. I dreamed of having children by my side, children to care for.
I dreamed of being called “mom” and I dreamed of being needed.
These days are long. And many of them are hard and incredibly draining. Motherhood takes a physical and emotional toll on me and I often feel inadequate, even useless.
But as difficult and unfulfilling as some days are, I don’t want to get caught up in chasing more. Because I already have enough.
My hands are full and so is my heart.