It’s 8:30 a.m. on Monday morning. I am sitting at my desk in the school nurse’s office, checking my work email, and finishing my green tumbler of tea from home.
Normally, I would unlock the cupboards and grab the medication binder used to track when students come for their meds, but I won’t be needing that today. Next, I would check my mini fridge’s freezer to make sure I have a stock of ice packs ready to go before recess; I won’t be needing those today either.
Texas was home for my first eighteen years until 1997 when I moved up north to first Montana then Washington. I now have four children and due to the cost of plane tickets, I am only able to go visit every two to three years. In fact, until this past December, I hadn’t been home for Christmas since before I left in 1996.
I don’t want to complain tonight, but can I be real? I’m tired. I will be 41 in nine days. I have been at this motherhood thing for twenty-two years, and I still have eleven to go until my youngest is 18. That’s thirty-three years, y’all. Thirty-three years of cleaning up after little people, breaking up arguments, fixing broken toys, birthday parties, tantrums (oh yes, I am still dealing with that…)
Today I took my kids to a McDonald’s Playplace, and immediately the scene had me feeling all sorts of ways. First, the music that was playing was from the 90s, making me reminisce on my senior year of high school and wondering how in the WORLD am I going to be 41 in a couple of weeks?
It’s a bright, sunny day here in the Pacific Northwest, and I have an hour before I have to pick up my kids from school. I promised myself that I would clean my perpetually messy house during this hour of solitude. But God had other plans.