November 1, 2017
When my home is empty of the pitter pattering feet and the baby yelling “mama!” from their crib at 7 am, when I’m not picking up legos and baby dolls from the playroom floor every night and scrubbing smeared high-chairs throughout the day, when the laundry is lesser and the silence is more; I want to be tired.
I know we’re all tired now. I see it. We’re worn out, distracted, pulled in a million directions- racking our brains to see how we can do what we want while raising the babies in our arms. We are on our phones, on our computers, watching diligently and dutifully as others live their lives on our screens. And we are tired.
We are rushing, racing, rarely completing what we set out to do. We are picking up dinner because the day got away from us, restarting the dryer because the night got away from us and telling our husbands “tomorrow” because we are tired.
We send our kids to the other room, we shush our toddlers so we can listen to something else and we moan when they need us in the middle of the night because, don’t they know we’re tired?
When all is said and done, I want my throat to be tired from reading that book one last time, because really, what better way to spend the next three minutes? I want my feet to be tired from the long walk we took just to adventure and spend that time hand in hand and not just from the heels that I wore for that one picture I’d never actually wear in real life. I want my arms to be tired from folding (that last load of laundry) and holding (whatever baby needs me) and not just from that workout I’m praying will bring me to my dream body.
I want my eyes to be sore because I stayed up way longer than I prepared for talking to my husband and looking in his eyes, not from staring at a screen in the dark.
I want to be tired.
From days that meant something.