Late thinking

It’s 11:51 p.m. at night and I just got done listening to a 1hr and 45mins video of how the Moors ruled Europe for my Humanities class. It’s hot and I lay in bed with hubby, a 2 1/2 year old girl, and a six year old boy. They are sleeping so peacefully during this warm evening.

What makes it all even harder is that everyone is just getting done battling over a weird allergy, cold, cough – whatever it is. And while they’re sleeping, I’m still awake and listening to praise and worship music.

I’ve been so mad lately. I’ve been trying to analyze why and came down to the fact that I’m stressed. Not only does my night end with no space on the bed, but it starts over again 6 in the morning to wake up and get ready to drop off the kiddos to school. Then take care of the dogs and remember to feed my little munchkin. By the time 11am hits, I’m already tired with all the running around that I realize I haven’t eaten, yet. So I stuff myself with a peanut butter sandwich… too tired to eat. I put my little munchkin to sleep and hope to get some peace and quiet for study time, but then it’s already time to pick up the kids from school. Yet, I happen to find time in between to stuff some clothes into the washer/ dryer – even though the clothes from two days ago still sits in a basket.

As I type away, half my butt is slowly slipping off the bed as my daughter gets closer and closer to me – she just wants to feel that I’m there.

So tomorrow, my day will start off continuing from where I left off today. I will wake up and make sure the clothes are dry, so that I can try to fold them, drop off/ pick up the kids, study, clean, eat, sleep, and play. Of course, I will have my warm coffee in hand. I just want to cry. I’m tired, Lord. So, so, so tired.

I used to write all the time, I used to draw all the time, I used to crochet and make cards. I used to read books or at least look at one. Now, I type cause it’s faster to get my words down, I doodle and draw shapes for a toddler, my closest thing to crocheting is fixing my daughters’ hairs, and the cards I make are written on notepads to remind me what else needs to be done.

Yet, every time, I take a moment to just breathe and listen to praise and worship music, all my worries and stress seems to go away. Do I love being a mom? Yes, because I get to see my kids laugh, play, smile, and tell me stories. Do I hate being a mom? Hate is such a strong word. I get overwhelmed being a mom. I watch them grow, I see them cry, and I see them mad (I GET MAD) – what’s hard about being a mom is knowing when to say “no” and how to say “no.” Being a mom means to be able to answer questions honestly, but also be sensitive to how they feel, whether they like your answer or not. It’s hard to accept that our kids are their own individual and that they all grow up. They will experience things that we hope for them not to experience and they will discover the world.

The other day, my eldest son and I were having a conversation about responsibility and we had a mature conversation about how I want to shelter him, but that I know he’s at that age where he wants to be his own individual. I had to explain to him that we will work on independence one step at a time, because even though he feels he’s responsible enough, I still have a lot to prepare him for independence. Twelve years old is too soon for this mommy to let go and set free.

Hubby, on the other hand, perhaps doesn’t see where I’m coming from – to be sensitive on the emotion of a pre-teen. A lot can happen at this age, because they’re stuck between being a kid and adulthood. They feel responsible, but yet they don’t know how to be responsible – there’s still a lot to learn.

So much to say… I’m tired already and I can feel my legs just going limp on me. But at least I’ve been able to type down something running through my head.

Tomorrow is a new day. I’m just thankful that I am blessed with another day to just write about. I’m just thankful that I can listen, see, smell, and feel my family near me.

I can only imagine what it would be like if they weren’t.

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