I’m sick. I’m sick and that makes me feel tragic and grumpy. I want to sit in a bay window and lean my cheek on the cool glass and watch the rain fall on the other side. I want to be a romance novel.
I’ve been dwelling on mortality. On my long runs i run slide shows of my life through my head. I can hardly believe how many years i’ve already lived and how i have to struggle to remember the memories. I met shane twenty one years ago. I don’t know how that is even possible.
Sometimes i think about the big black space that is death. For a fleeting moment my mind completely grasps it and i have to brush it away. Quickly. It is a terrifying thought. I know we all die, but as the years in front of me don’t tip in my favour anymore i feel a need to live life better. To do it better.
Parenting messes with your head. My head. I am constantly, for fourteen years now, thinking of everything i could be doing better. Beating myself up for not baking cookies, making pie. I have four amazing, healthy, totally unique kids. They are creative and spontaneous, generous and kind. They are everything i could ever have hoped for. I need to enjoy this more.
Sometimes i miss the single-parenting days because i really had to focus on them when i had them. Fill their buckets full and then recharge and stress when they were at their dads.
I miss working nights. I miss being alone at the end of the night, just me and my thoughts and a big, empty restaurant. This 9 to 5 thing makes me crazy. Constantly running, catching up, catching breaths. Never a moment to just sit in the window.