But that's just today
It's a 'feeling sorry for myself' kind of day.
Not that I do feel sorry for myself, I really don't. I know how lucky I am that my husband is employed, that we have food to eat, that we have a house and things in it, that we have clothes and shoes and all the necessary things of life. I know how lucky I am that my kids are healthy, growing, mine, happy, spoiled, rotten, housed, fed, blah, blah, blah. I've had this conversation with myself all day.
What on earth do I have to be mopey about?
I can see myself from the outside. I can see that my mouth is curving down at the edges when it should be curving up. I see that I'm impatient. I can see that my eyes are heavy, I can feel the grittiness beneath my lids. But it's not tired-heavy. It's sour-heavy.
I have nothing to complain about today. I love my house. I love my kids. I love my husband.
But the thought of getting up out of this chair and cooking for them - I don't love that. The idea of converting my daughter's room to the new playroom (because she always sleeps with her brother on his bottom bunk now, and they both like it) makes me want to lock myself in the bathroom. The thought of finding out why Carly just closed the bedroom door - because that can't be good - is just exhausting. I don't have the will. Or the way.
When you're driving east to my house on Route 66 (because we live right off Route 66, the famous highway, Josh will tell you) you top this little rise and suddenly the valley tapers off in front of you. Far in the distance is the fuzzy, blue-gray outline of some mountains. They seem small, so far off. But they can't be if I can see them from here. They're big. And I could drive to get there. But it's farther than I need to go. That little mountain range takes my breath away every. single. time. Not because it's the biggest or the most beautiful, but because it represents hope. And steadiness. And patience. It represents this journey.
And today the journey is hard. Not because I'm weighed down by burdens, not because I need more or want more. But because it's tedious. One foot in front of the other, day after day, and those mountains seem like they're never going to get any closer. And when I reach them, I'll have to climb them.
And today, that seems too hard to do.
Not that I do feel sorry for myself, I really don't. I know how lucky I am that my husband is employed, that we have food to eat, that we have a house and things in it, that we have clothes and shoes and all the necessary things of life. I know how lucky I am that my kids are healthy, growing, mine, happy, spoiled, rotten, housed, fed, blah, blah, blah. I've had this conversation with myself all day.
What on earth do I have to be mopey about?
I can see myself from the outside. I can see that my mouth is curving down at the edges when it should be curving up. I see that I'm impatient. I can see that my eyes are heavy, I can feel the grittiness beneath my lids. But it's not tired-heavy. It's sour-heavy.
I have nothing to complain about today. I love my house. I love my kids. I love my husband.
But the thought of getting up out of this chair and cooking for them - I don't love that. The idea of converting my daughter's room to the new playroom (because she always sleeps with her brother on his bottom bunk now, and they both like it) makes me want to lock myself in the bathroom. The thought of finding out why Carly just closed the bedroom door - because that can't be good - is just exhausting. I don't have the will. Or the way.
When you're driving east to my house on Route 66 (because we live right off Route 66, the famous highway, Josh will tell you) you top this little rise and suddenly the valley tapers off in front of you. Far in the distance is the fuzzy, blue-gray outline of some mountains. They seem small, so far off. But they can't be if I can see them from here. They're big. And I could drive to get there. But it's farther than I need to go. That little mountain range takes my breath away every. single. time. Not because it's the biggest or the most beautiful, but because it represents hope. And steadiness. And patience. It represents this journey.
And today the journey is hard. Not because I'm weighed down by burdens, not because I need more or want more. But because it's tedious. One foot in front of the other, day after day, and those mountains seem like they're never going to get any closer. And when I reach them, I'll have to climb them.
And today, that seems too hard to do.
