It’s Sunday.

I hate weekends. I’m like the scrooge of weekends. The weekend comes and it is basically guaranteed that I will be miserable for two days.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Seriously, what is wrong with me? I am home with my husband and my three kids. We are spending time together as a family. We are laughing and talking and just BEING. And here I am, sulking. I sulk because there is laundry to fold. I sulk because I have another person to wash dishes up after. I sulk because we aren’t leaving the house. I sulk because I have been doing this shit all week can’t I get a break from doing all of the shit for two days. I sulk and then I sulk about sulking.

In our world, Sunday is almost over. It is earlyish afternoon and I know I have approximately three hours left until the bedtime ritual which is hell and makes me cranky any day. But what have I done this weekend? What have I actually accomplished?


Egan just reminded me though, as he started pulling on the gate downstairs while crying, that this is life now. I am a mom. I am a wife. I don’t get breaks anymore. I mean, some people do, and you people who get breaks? Please tell me your secrets. Because this shit is exhausting and I could use a break sometimes.

I love being home with my kids. I love being with my husband and laughing with him and scowling at him for not putting the toys in the right bin. I love when he cleans up the dishes for me so I don’t have to. I don’t love when I have to watch him snuggling with our sleeping baby on the couch when all I want to do is SIT DOWN.

And there is always shit to do. In the back of my head, brewing like a bitter pot of coffee, all of the things that haven’t gotten done and another weekend going by and WHY  HAS NOTHING GOT DONE.

And then one kid shits their pants while the other pees all over the heater and everyone is hungry all of the time and I just picked that up why is it all over the floor and nobody sleeps and everyone cries and the laundry and the dishes and the groceries and the chores.


Nothing gets done because we are never away from our kids. We are home with them. We don’t really do things separately. There is no you take all three of these things and go do something on your own because honestly that is sort of evil punishment for an otherwise happy and healthy marriage. I wouldn’t do that to him. He wouldn’t wish that on me. So we all go or one of us goes, that’s basically how that works. And when we all go we curse our lives because it is not fun. It is stressful as shit. And sometimes we do it anyway because we need to get out of our own way for an hour.

And I’m rambling…

We don’t get anything done because we are too busy connecting and raising these humans that we adore and love and the things that need to get done? They can wait. Because those kids don’t care that our windows aren’t trimmed out or that the thresholds are missing or that the laundry has piled up again. They don’t care that underneath the couches are filth and their snack from two weeks ago is under the cushion. They don’t care that there are dishes in the sink or toilet bowls to clean or tubs to scrub or floors to mop. They care that we are there, interacting with them, loving them, playing with them, sharing experiences with them, watching movies with them, and reading to them.

And that is what I am doing. My breaks are short and few and far between. I am sitting upstairs listening to them talking to each other, my heart exploding with the love I have, and I am thankful that I don’t know what I’m doing or that I only shower every other day and that sometimes I wear the same clothes for days on end.

I haven’t yelled in around 23 days. I have sat and read and played. I’ve made playdough and made memories. I have hugged more and gotten frustrated less. I’ve learned that Waverly thinks it is hilarious when I “turn down her cranky switch” and tickle the back of her neck when she is getting out of control. I have learned so much about relationships.

The laundry will always stress me out as will the dirty floors (thanks dogs) and the dirty bathroom (thanks toilet using small humans). I will always hate making 10 mini meals a day just to be told that it is gross. I will stress about things that I have no control over and I will worry about things that have no bearing on our immediate future. I will worry about when we will be able to get our bathroom upstairs tiled while also realizing having two bathrooms is a definite luxury. I will worry about doing everything wrong and not sleeping enough and not eating great. I will stress about the time I will never have back that I had wasted when I was younger.

But these years when my children are young? When they still want to snuggle on my lap, read books, and sleep beside us at night? I will cherish these years much more than I will cherish the time spent away from them.

As they say, the days are long but the years are short. And these years are going by faster than I could have imagined.

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