It was a nice day. New friends and a walk to Soho. Free cupcakes, a stroll to the playground and mild weather after a harsh winter.
But what is it about nighttime that makes me believe I’ve never seen day?
What is it about discontent that makes me think I’ve never felt peace?
I thought that one of the perks of living in a 600 sq ft home would be never having to clean because we’d have to downsize our belongings so much. Yet there always seems to be cleaning to do. Laundry to wash, dust to sweep and counters to wipe. Bigger homes at least don’t feel quite so crowded in times of disarray. No matter how I pray, entropy never once reversed itself to aid in my housekeeping efforts.
The existential crisis of motherhood: why sweep today if again tomorrow dirt will coat these hardwood floors?
I even bought a cheap ukelele and serenaded Zoe with Ingrid Michaleson today. The job of motherhood is a wonderful one and the job of being a wife is a glorious one.
But sometimes there are hard weeks. When husbands work late and floors seem to get messier out of spite– even though you know floors are inanimate things and don’t feel spite. When sheets need washing twice in the same month and even though the weather is getting nice all you want to do is lay in bed with a pint of ice cream and four seasons of crappy TV. When free cupcakes and a walk to Soho still leads to an empty evening.
There are hard weeks– but only sometimes.
Most times, there are good weeks.