“If you’re not happy in your life right now, it’s your fault. I don’t mean fleeting happiness, I mean deep, joy. If you don’t have joy, it’s your fault, because God has given you everything you need to be full of joy. You are alive, and you have Him.”
I am not a coffee snob per say, but I have been known to dump out an entire pot that tasted like dirty water that my mother in law had made. Honestly, I’m surprised I’m still alive after that one.
This is the good part. This is the part worth waiting for. I get to see my little human feel the difference between rough tree bark and cool metal. To play with the springs of a whisk, and the squishiness of a berry.
I don’t love every minute. I struggle with most of the minutes. But that’s where the magic happens. Those repetitive, minute, hard, in between moments are where I learn how to become bigger than myself. I learn how to Mom.
The library police (aka a severe elderly lady named Linda in a pink cardigan which was not severe) swooped in to escort me away from the story time, just in case some of my tardiness would rub off on the put together parents.
I’m going to jump right to the problem-it’s you. And I’m done.
Mom’s are supposed to be with their babies, biology says so, and I get that. If I was in a small tribe in a third world country, I would work in the fields with Seb on my back in the original baby carrier. And I probably wouldn’t have paid so much for shipping. But that’s not the reality I’m working with, and as much as it breaks my heart to be apart from Seb, we both have grown from the experience.
A dry, dead plant in a pool of water is just about as depressing as it gets, and probably a metaphor for something. Another $15 dollars that I basically could have just thrown down the garbage disposal like my succulent carcass.
OR scrubs take the scrub game to a whole new level. See, when you first graduate nursing school, you buy all of those Facebook ad scrubs. The form fitting ones with elastic and zippers and pockets just in case you need to store something no bigger than a quarter behind your left calf.
That’s how I feel about parenting. Which, I’m not technically even doing yet. I feel like “parenting” refers to teaching and playing and educating and disciplining. I’m no where near that. I’m infanting. Which is basically just trying to make sure Sebastian is fed and relatively happy, which he is because he has the personality of a golden retriever puppy. Playful, adorable, and pees when he gets excited.