Who is myself?
I used to write deep poetry. I used to write music, not just pretty lyrics, but deep lyrics that actually meant I put thought into them. I used to compose my own music to go with them, I even composed a couple of instrumental pieces, very pretty ones.
But if I sat here and listed out all the things I used to do I would only quickly slip into a comalike state of depression for what I now currently find all my time being used up for.
Things like scrubbing toilets, or floors because your toddler squatted and did a #2 while you were getting your 4 year old out of the bath. Things like: sweeping up the ever multiplying scattered crumbs and other random pieces of trash on your filthy kitchen floor of which you can't even bring yourself to mop recently because "why bother!?" Things like: collecting all the dozens of dirty utensils and cups and plates and dirty diapers (because apparently I am the only one that can find it in their heart to place dirty diapers in the actual garbage can).
I spend my life like someone who had been sold into slavery. Rarely allowed a shower, please don't talk to me about bubble baths because those are only allowed to the very fortunate children of the household. My greatest and most treasured pleasures at the moment are things like: allowing myself a cup of hot cocoa smothered in whipped cream or completely consuming my imagination in a few episodes of Bones while my toddler lays sleeping in my arms after breastfeeding.
It's the little things.
I won't pretend that watching his tender features drift peacefully in sleep aren't a pleasure I gladly soak up. My children are my pleasure and delight. But I'm also an adult human being who requires other things like, oh, I don't know, adult conversation. And possibly even a few moments (put together!) of silence to think deep brooding thoughts, being the artsy creative person I am. When I don't get these, (and I'm going to tell you this is the first blog post I've managed to pop out in almost forever so that gives you an idea of the kind of time frame we're talking about), I start to lose my sparkle. I start to lose my persona. I'm simply not myself without being able to remember who myself is.
I am Mommy.
But I am also Julie. And just sometimes it must be about me.
But if I sat here and listed out all the things I used to do I would only quickly slip into a comalike state of depression for what I now currently find all my time being used up for.
Things like scrubbing toilets, or floors because your toddler squatted and did a #2 while you were getting your 4 year old out of the bath. Things like: sweeping up the ever multiplying scattered crumbs and other random pieces of trash on your filthy kitchen floor of which you can't even bring yourself to mop recently because "why bother!?" Things like: collecting all the dozens of dirty utensils and cups and plates and dirty diapers (because apparently I am the only one that can find it in their heart to place dirty diapers in the actual garbage can).
I spend my life like someone who had been sold into slavery. Rarely allowed a shower, please don't talk to me about bubble baths because those are only allowed to the very fortunate children of the household. My greatest and most treasured pleasures at the moment are things like: allowing myself a cup of hot cocoa smothered in whipped cream or completely consuming my imagination in a few episodes of Bones while my toddler lays sleeping in my arms after breastfeeding.
It's the little things.
I won't pretend that watching his tender features drift peacefully in sleep aren't a pleasure I gladly soak up. My children are my pleasure and delight. But I'm also an adult human being who requires other things like, oh, I don't know, adult conversation. And possibly even a few moments (put together!) of silence to think deep brooding thoughts, being the artsy creative person I am. When I don't get these, (and I'm going to tell you this is the first blog post I've managed to pop out in almost forever so that gives you an idea of the kind of time frame we're talking about), I start to lose my sparkle. I start to lose my persona. I'm simply not myself without being able to remember who myself is.
I am Mommy.
But I am also Julie. And just sometimes it must be about me.
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