Summer #3

This is the third summer now of moving back and forth. Living in sparsely furnished houses, without the vast majority of our own things. I don't have anything new to say about it really. A new city to explore this year which I am stubbornly resisting learning how to navigate. The usual.

I feel the more children I have and the more often I go through this the less energy I have to care, or to put into trying new things. It's a terrible attitude, I'm well aware. But I am a home body. I am a creature of habit if there ever was one. I like routine. I like the same places and the same things. I like knowing what I'm doing and being comfortable doing it. I like being home. I like knowing where all my stuff is, and the days of having all our own things readily available, building flowerbeds and gardens and driveways and horse sheds seem far behind us.

I sound awful boring, don't worry, I'm well aware. 

The kids of course adjust much better than myself. Give them some room outside to play, some goldfish crackers, and some Paw Patrol and I'm pretty sure they'd happily live anywhere. We have a little 5$ blowup pool from walmart that they happily splash in all afternoon long, they don't need much, despite me sitting here looking at play structures and swing sets on pinterest. I hope I'm doing alright with them. I do try now and then, I really do. They seem pretty happy most of the times anyway.

Birthday "happy cakes" to celebrate our William

I sit and dream sometimes of things we will do when "real life" starts, and I need to slow down and remind myself that this is real life. Right now. The babies are growing and football is exciting and these moment won't happen again. Days filled with land developing and fence building and flower bed tending, they'll happen again.

Deep Breaths

Sometimes I find myself needing to stop, and take a deep breath, and to remind myself that I am still me.

I am still me in there. Somewhere. Somewhere underneath the angry mom voice, the snot cleaning, the butt wiping, the refereeing, the breast feeding, the toddler feeding (or failure of)...  And it is in these moments of all three children crying at me for whatever reason, that I need to stop. To slow down the chaos in my head that all of them needing something from me at the exact same time creates. When I am overrun by the feeling of becoming the cranky, frumpy, yelling, angry mom, I need to stop. And remember that I am still me.

I adore these boys. I adore that I get to hang out with them all day, I would be beyond jealous if anyone else got to. I adore and admire how Will is the biggest sweetheart I have ever met, and despite how emotional he can be, I know he gets that from me, because he comes and strokes my face softly when I am sad and emotional. I adore how Sam is still such a squishy little cuddler, my own personal teddy bear. And I adore how Ben gazes at me while he nurses and if I look back he loses focus on the task at hand and just smiles and giggles at me. Things take much longer to accomplish but goodness I wouldn't have it any other way. I have time.

I have become a mother, yes, right down to the deepest and darkest parts of my soul. And I so love it, and I wouldn't change it for the world. But I have to remind myself that I am still me in there. I still have my own personality. I can still be funny and silly and just as goofy as these hilarious boys of mine. I do not just need to only be stressed and worried and frazzled about my kids all the time, about getting things done, about schedules and eating and sleeping and cleaning. I am allowed to have other thoughts creep into my mind. I am still allowed to have my own interests that don't have to revolve around what's the next activity to do to keep my children busy.

And if some days the tv is on more than it should be, if Cinderella runs through a second time (goodness they love Cinderella), so I have a bit more opportunity to do something I want to do, to sit, to read, to journal, to drink my coffee while it's still hot... That's ok. And I don't need to beat myself up or wallow in guilt over that.
Because I'm allowed to still be me.

Things To Talk About

I almost began this post by saying "I wish I had more things to talk about than motherhood".

But really, I don't.

I like talking about my kids. I like talking about your kids. My life, like that of so many other mamas, revolves around my children. I know it's nice to remember your sense of self sometimes, to still feel like you, and I still get those snippets now and then; but realistically, when things come down to it, these tiny humans of mine are what my world spin 'round. And are often pretty much all I have to talk about.

Yes I go to a football game now and then. Yes there is a running list of projects I'd like to get done once we're back home at our cabin. But really, the vast majority of my days are spent watching Will like a hawk, trying to determine whether or not he needs to get put on the potty, and smiling at Sam as he sits on the floor blowing spit bubbles and dancing with his rolly little arms. Many days are spent with cheers for successful toilet trips, baby giggles, clapping to the guitar, big toddler hugs, squishy baby hugs, and peaceful naps. There are also plenty of days where I try to hide in the dining room, searching my bible and my coffee cup for patience and grace, days where I cry at the foot of our bed, days of screaming and crying and teething and cleaning poopy underwear. Days where bedtime just can't come fast enough. Days where I vent my frustrations on my husband. Days where when all is said and done I just really want a glass of wine, but oh look, I'm pregnant again, so I pull out a bucket of ice cream instead.

These babies of mine are beautiful and perfect and healthy and strong and silly and tempermental and dramatic and everything else that small children should be. And my life is consumed by them, and I'm blessed to be able to say that. So when I look at it in all honesty, the majority of the time there isn't much else I can contribute to conversation right now.

And that's alright.