Unbalanced

It’s 5:20 in the morning, and I’ve been slipping in and out of consciousness since 2am. 

My mind vacillates between active and inactive; thoughts to be tossed,  “did I already pack extra diapers?” and thoughts to try and hold on to. “I wonder if my oldest feels valued and seen.” 

“These are the tired years,” they say. But these are also the sweetest years, where I discover my children bit by bit, in the middle of the night and during long afternoons of chalk, crushed crackers, endless toddler emotions, and the sweetest and most sincere requests to play another round of ‘doctor’ and ‘tea party.’ 

There is an endless tug-of-war between play and responsibility. More than ever before, there’s a tug of war between relationships and balance. If I have an evening to myself, I will long for the sweet smell of my children’s hair after a bath. Too often though, as I am bathing my children I find myself longing for some solitude. If I play more tea parties, I see the laundry stack up. If I prep the meals, I feel the tension of the time spent doing so. Time is precious, and there is never enough of it. I am in the pursuit of finding a balance that simply does not exist, so I just do the best I can…like so many mothers, I find myself just doing the best I can. I whittle my morning ‘get ready’ routine down to 20 minutes so I have an extra 40 to spend packing diaper bags, making breakfast (enough for myself and others), and spending a few moments asking my spouse how he slept and trying desperately to share in a few stolen glances that will carry us through the lack of time we currently have for each other in this season. (It's funny how what is 'romantic' and beautiful now is the familiarity, stability, and faithfulness more than the roses or the spontaneity--of which there is little room for these days.)

It’s 5:50 in the morning; I’ve had my coffee, spent time in prayer & meditation, and penned these few words to pull my mind back to center (wherever ‘center’ is for today, because let’s be honest, ‘center’ is never the same). A toddler is stirring, and it is time for me to set the timer: If I am quick enough, I can brush my teeth, put on make up, warm up some milk for a toddler, and make a cup of coffee for my spouse before the toddler escalates. I glance over at the baby monitor, switching between two cribs and I catch myself making a mental checklist of all that needs to be accomplished. 

“These are the tired years.” 

Yet, these are the years I will one day long for when I am old and gray. 

I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a pastor. I am an artist. I am a daughter, friend, leader, teacher, learner. 

I choose to be present, unbalanced, and content in the monotony of this juxtapositional existence knowing one day I will long for the return of these tired years. 

-RS