Our house is on the market.
I am growing my hair out.
Briar has started kindergarten.
Avery is in pre-school.
Fin keeps flirting with weaning.
I am at home part time and at work part time.
It feels a bit like I am chasing my own tail, with each day bleeding into the next. Lunches to make, clothes to fold and put away, projects to finish, promises to keep. I am never done. I keep trying to determine if it is just the inevitable fatigue and subsequent acceptance that it can’t all get done, everyone can’t be made happy, or if it is something else.
Am I missing something? Pursuing the wrong thing? Fighting the wrong battles? Or, am I simply slipping into a chapter of my life where I am more aware of death than birth, more drawn to arriving than pursuing?
I rapture in the girls and long to do the same with Sean. We are never not working, parenting, cleaning or chasing a deadline.
Does it slow down? Can we slow down? I mean, if we do slow down, will our lives follow suit, or will we just fail?
I sputter and start, vowing to view things from this perspective or that, but the truth is, I yearn for winter. I want the dark shadows of snow and shorter days to give me the license to pause. I want to stir soup and match socks, tuck little girls into downy blankets and cuddle in for the night with Sean.
Melancholy laps at my feet when I get this way, knowing that I am wishing away today for the perceived promise or relief of tomorrow. I don’t want to miss anything, don’t want to rush through a phase, but lately it feels as if something doesn’t give I am surely going to stumble.
Am I alone?