My house is still suffering from the Christmas explosion.
From my seat, I can observe many things, including: bear slippers, Matchbox cars, unmatched socks, stacks of recycling, bags for Goodwill, puzzles, 2 Fireman hats and an elephant that shoots colored balls out of its trunk. I am trying to be thankful for the joyful season and abundance, and resist the urge to put stacks by the curb with “free” signs. (If there were no snow banks, I might actually do that…)
But I can’t find my battery charger.
I read a book.
I took a nap.
I took a walk.
I had some cocktails and dinner out.
I listened to some great music, turned up too loud.
I went to bed early.
I rocked my daughter to sleep.
I laughed with my son.
I reconnected with old friends.
I stayed up late in the quiet, puttering.
And I still haven’t been able to recharge my batteries. Energy is running low. Where is that dang pink bunny with the drum, anyway?
It was a very long short week. Tonight, on the drive home, my husband and I were trying to make a plan to divvy up the bedtime duties while Plum wailed exhaustedly, and Pickle muttered and mumbled requests just quietly enough that we couldn’t hear him.
“What is the plan?” Ty asked.
“Well, I plan to pull into the driveway, put the car in park and then run away screaming.” I responded.
“Shoot,” he said, “that was my plan, too.”
At least we can laugh together.
Sure, it was less than a week ago that we had one of the best days ever, but today we’re feeling tired and worn. That’s how this whole parenting thing works, I think. The good news is that funks don’t last forever, and one day – someday – we will be rested and recharged. I am thankful I can recognize that.
Under those fireman hats – it’s a good place to start looking for that charger.