I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room listening to my boys upstairs. They are master players.
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Before the boys, our sabbath looked like lazy drawn out mornings unfolding in coffee refills and hour long quiet times. The hours seeped into each other, morning to afternoon to evening, like waves lapping the shore.
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Last week I had one of those days—the one where mid-way through you wonder where things went terribly awry and wish you could crawl back into hibernation and wake up and start again.
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I’m sorry. I just have too much on my plate right now. How many times have I heard (or spoken) those words recently? It’s the mantra of the American woman
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Every day is a new adventure. Some days the adventures feel like sinkholes, some days they feel like the ultimate win.
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What is it about Sundays lately that makes me feel sad? I know – because I tell people all the time – that you have to listen to what your emotions are telling you.
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This summer has been a beating, emotionally and otherwise. I’m learning how to be a foster parent, how to love someone else’s kid that is becoming like my own, and how to say goodbye when the time comes. I have felt emotions I didn’t know existed.
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