Always rushing around—in traffic, at home, at work.
Always running late—with my tasks at work, at home, and with my bills.
Having a hectic week; having two kids with diarrhea.
Canceling everything, putting everything off, cleaning everything up.
Gastrolite, probiotics, cleaning the toilet, and repeating.
Hearing that high-pitched, frantic inner voice reminding me of all the things I had to do today.
Wanting to lie to the daycare and the school, drop off the kids, and run away.
Hearing another voice, calmer, gentler: “You’re exactly where you need to be.”
Calm down. Change a diaper.
Make poop jokes. Make my kids laugh out loud.
Hearing the high-pitched voice take offense at our fun. How dare I laugh when my inbox is filling up?
Seek out that calm voice again. Dig it out from under a layer of anxiety. Ask it what it thinks.
“You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
Calm down. Go for a bike ride with my kids, who have accidents but are still full of energy.
Savor the sun warming my face. Gaze at my two little wonders. Laugh at their silly antics, their squabbles. Run with the oldest one to the bathroom.
Look at my computer, picture everything I could get done if I slipped away for 5 minutes.
Five minutes is nothing! I have hours and hours to make up.
Hugging my son, comforting him, rubbing his sore tummy.
“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Put the kids down for a nap. Fall asleep with them.
Miss my only chance to work today. Wake up in a panic.
Neglect my kids. Work. Feel like everything they do gets on my nerves.
“I’ve given you the whole day—just let me work a little!”
Can’t concentrate. Afraid of making mistakes.
Yelling at the kids for fighting. Losing control, feeling that shrill voice fill my head.
“I could have worked, gone grocery shopping, started dinner, cleaned the toilets again, emptied the dishwasher. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep like a coward, a lazybones.”
Reflecting on my life, on my lack of sleep. Feeling my body appreciate the rest. Picture my kids snuggled up to me, their deep breaths, their warmth.
Shut down my computer. Calm my nerves. Send my acute hysteria packing and tell it not to come back until tomorrow.
Change my attitude. Notice the children’s attitude changing as well.
Realizing that I had disrupted the balance of the day.
Unload the dishwasher with my oldest. Talk about life, about school.
Laughing at my youngest, who’s being funny.
Feel the strongest conviction of my life: “I am exactly where I’m supposed to be!”
Never wanting to forget it again. Never wanting to let it slip away.
Never again let myself be swayed into believing that anything else is more important.
Never again!