All around my home, the snow’s melting and the ice is turning to slush but we’re still cautious, cautiously watching Tristen, who possessed a very near dangerous temperature to go along with his lethargic behavior yesterday, and cautiously going insane because the possibility of harming the precious cargo within our vehicle, just to elevate this cabin-fever, just doesn’t seem quite worth it.
So we stayed home and my skin crawled beneath itself, the remnants of my brown hair slowly morphed to gray and today, my heart is devoid of contentment and peace. This is just one day in this week but yet, it seems to be a common recurrence in my life as a stay-at-home mom.
I am fortunate, incredibly fortunate, and blessed, blessed beyond mental comprehension, to have the privilege to raise and love these sweet children and if given the choice, I would still be right here, raising them, loving them and watching their little souls grow every single day.
But then, where does this discontentment come from?
I am not a spoiled housewife that does not appreciate the choice I’ve been given. I fully understand that others simply do not have the means to even consider not working.
But even though I fail at so many things in this household, like keeping the kitchen clean, the floors free from crumbs and the laundry neatly folded and put away, some days I feel like I’m limiting my own abilities. Some days I feel better than this housewife-crap, some days I feel like I need more intellectual stimulation, I need an adult conversation, a reminder that I’m witty, pleasant and enjoyable to be around, some days I feel like I just need more.
I’m exhausted. This life is exhausting. I spend my days with my children, who can be easily renamed as, “self-centered, self-absorbed jerks who do not appreciate your kindness, your effort and time,” and then I await my husband’s arrival from work, who apologetically is too “exhausted and tired,” to alleviate the horrid, mess of a household and my incessant mental-adult-fix. Thus, he’s tired and I’m tired and that’s our night until it resumes again another day.
I feel like I'm suppose to be here raising my children into people that I can be proud of, people that respect others, who treat others with compassion and kindness and I know, this job is extraordinarily HUGE in it's importance and it's depth. Some may even equate it to the most important job in the world. I understand the logic. I feel the responsibility.
But yet, I still feel like I’m missing something. Something I can't put into words. Something, I think, might have been written in some book that I read during my time in college. Betty Free, it was? No, Betty Friedon, I believe was her name. And the book? Ahh, I can’t quite put my finger on it.
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