I have a problem.
Perhaps feeling lousy has me discouraged. Perhaps it’s just humbled me enough to be honest with myself. Perhaps the sight of dirty laundry and dirty everything that piles up when your whole family is sick has me feeling overwhelmed.
Any way you look at it, I have a problem.
I have too many interests, too many ideas. I like too many things. I like them enough and am good enough at them that I end up pursuing too many interests, too many projects, always believing that I’ll have time to accomplish what seems so beautifully simple at the time, convinced as well that I might actually become good at it.
And so I start. And then I’m interrupted. And then life goes on.
And right now I feel trapped by all my silly dreams, wishing I’d never spent the money, or begun, or even dreamed it up.
Am I an incurable optimist, or certifiably insane? The ball could fall either way.
But either way, I’m still in trouble. It’s got to stop. I’m raising 8 children, for crying out loud! In what universe did I think that added up to time for anything extra? And why am I afraid to get rid of it all, to quit everything but the very basics of being a Mom? Am I afraid that in the end there will be nothing left of me? Am I afraid to truly forget myself? Or is there some part of me that I’m supposed to keep alive in these crazy years?
Sometimes none of this bothers me.
Today it does. Today it makes me cry.
Can I just “reboot” my life and go back 15 years to get it all right? How is it that I managed to be so successful in my pre-marital life, only to look around today and wonder what’s become of me?
Once upon a time I saw so clearly the girl I meant to be.
Today I see a mess. Lots of them.
And that is my problem.