Sunday morning, and the day stretches out before me in that proverbial way a day does when there’s nothing planned and only one parent home and three kids walking aimlessly through the house. Run-on sentences fill my head.
There are the things that I could do: Laundry. Dishes. Get down on the floor and play with the kids.
There are the things that I want to do: Sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and gaze up at the trees. Watch the cardinal couple flirting. Prepare for the day by preparing words for the page.
There are the things that I must do: Feed the kids. Break up their fights. Find patience where my reserves run dry.
Sunday morning, and the possibilities are not as endless as I’d like them to be as I sit here once again coming to terms with the truths that I love my life and at the same time feel not yet as accomplished as I’d like to be—in my parenting, in my writing, in my feelings of self-contentment. How is it possible, these contradictions of life?
Sunday morning, and my 10 minutes spent. Sisters yelling at each other; a brother marking his Lego territory. Me wanting to wash my face and send them all outside.
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Originally posted in June 2011