Jeff and I have returned from our desert oasis. It has reminded me how I am different from most people, at least the people who post on social media about how there is no place like home, once they are home from vacation.
Coming home is downright painful for me.
This is sad, but it’s a fact. The closer we got to our house, the tighter the constriction in my chest. The weight of parenting everyone fell back on my shoulders. My weighted cloak.
I love my children. But coming home from a rare getaway is hard. Parenting them is HARD.
I came inside and did four loads of laundry. None of it was mine or Jeff’s. I did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. I took out the trash. Three times. I helped with teeth-brushing, pj’s, prayers. I unpacked. I talked to Henry.
I climbed in bed and thought, “Children are precious.”
Then I thought, “Raising them isn’t something you do in your spare time. It’s what we are given space and time on this earth to do.” This is going to be my mantra, until it sticks and I feel it.
Diving back into the wreck. That’s what happening.
Jeff suggested we take our calm, detached perspective and shine it on our family, looking for ways we can make positive changes.
We came up with a plan. Will it work?
I declare it.