Monday, September 14, 2015

We Move

I woke up this morning with both of my children snuggled up next to me, my daughter on my right, my son nestled in on my left.  Both were breathing the soft, gentle, deep breaths of pure contentment that only children can breathe (that, my friends, is sleeping like a baby).

I didn't want to move.

My husband gently rubbed my leg, signalling it was my turn to get up, shower, start the day.

I didn't want to move.

I wanted to close my eyes and sink back into sleep, wanted to stay there snuggling my babies, because I've waited my whole life to snuggle these babies, and yet, every morning, I have to leave them.

I have to gently extricate myself from their sweet arms, sneak my daughter back into her bassinet, carry my son out to the dining room so he can have "brefast" with his daddy. 

I didn't want to move.

If parenting is a marathon, being a working parent is an Iron Man - I'm "all in" for several sports, and I don't have time to catch my breath in between. 

And then I wake up and don't want to move.

I explain to friends why I can't make a certain event or add more to my plate, and they say, "I don't know how you do it." Well, let me in on a secret, none of us know how we do it either, we just do it.

When Sheryl Sandberg's book came out, reminding women to focus on their careers, when Marissa Meyer talked about how having a baby just really wasn't has hard as she expected it to be, I wanted to throw something. 

Motherhood IS hard, and it's okay to say so, and it takes most of my mental energy, leaving very little for other people, but I must squish and squeeze and find more energy (or I'd be out of a job).   And I don't need reminding about my career, thanks. 

I would always rather snuggle my kids than lead a meeting, but I do lead meetings. I chair a department. I train new teachers. I organize community events. I teach Sunday school. I lean in to my life.  I take a breath; I leap.

I do move. I do get out of the bed and start the day.

And boy, do we live between those breaths we hardly have time to catch. 

We do our jobs, and we do them well. We come home and launch into the "second shift." We cook; we clean; we grocery shop; we do laundry; we sing songs; we play. We break dance (which mostly involves watching my son scoot around on his little bootie while Me First and the Gimme Gimmees reimagine some of America's classic songs to a punk beat). And then we go to sleep ("sleep" being going on unconscious for a few hours in between my daughter waking up to nurse).

And we wake up in a snuggly pile again, wishing we could stay there.

Because when your three year old snuggles in closer and says, "I don't want a piwwow. I want your arm," it's darn near impossible to get out of bed.

But we do.

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