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Written summer 2016

I'm on call today but didn't get called out to work. At first it was good. I got most of our bedroom cleaned. . .or at least what we would consider cleaned in that there are no longer piles of my clothes on the floor in front of the closet and I've gone through the Goodwill bags to make it easier for us to someday get them out of the house. Even though some of them are filled with kid clothes that they probably don't take but I don't know where else to take them.

Now it's 5pm and I miss my kids. Miss them being with me. Hate them being away from me for so long. Even though I know they are probably having fun. And yesterday afternoon when they were with me I was just so done. So tired and not getting anything done, no energy to get anything done. Parenthood is a mental illness. I want to be with them all the time, I feel not quite right without them, but then I'm with them and it's so hard I want to crawl under the covers and watch old Gilmore Girls episodes. Not hard as in challenging, though at times it is. Hard as in the surface of a rock rubbed against your skin. Painful, a dull pain. Boring. With moments of such sweetness.

My friend Maia just spent a week in Nicaragua. There's a picture of her surfing and looking at it made me feel. . .like that is ten worlds away from me. Not just the surfing part, because I've tried it a couple times and gotten pummeled and scared and never made it to my feet. But the solo trip away from my kids for a week. I'm thrilled for her that she did it. I want to do it. And it feels. . .impossible. Which is crazy because it's not like I love my kids more than she loves hers. What is it then?

I fold tiny clothes that aren't even tiny any more, just too small. And I miss their tiny baby selves even though I'm so glad that part is over. But over for good? I just. . .it's hard to take it all in. I don't expect to enjoy every minute but how do I constantly feel like I might be missing it, even when I'm sitting right there?