The Wheel is turning. I feel it. High summer’s heat is softened ’round the edges. It’s bite is less sharp, though no less taxing when getting three children in and out of stifling car seats. I’m tired of sweating. I never like to rush a season, for time moves swiftly enough as it is, but I cannot wait for late summer, when the Wheel slips toward Mabon and full on Fall.
I am looking forward to the colors of leaves, to brisk air in the mornings, to rain, to the dark. I want to be able to wear my baby on long walks with out worry that she’ll get overheated or my shirt will plaster itself to me all damp and stinky. I’m tired of smelling – of sweat, pee, and sour milk.
I can say that I want quiet time, but I get that every now again. Sitting in meditation reminds me that I have ‘quiet time PTSD.’ Every five seconds I’m braced for a child to come wailing or stomping into my lap. I twitch at every sound: is that the baby about to stir? No? Are the kids just talking or is the Big Brother bullying his sister? No? I’m poised to parent. This constant stopping and starting is so incredibly taxing.
I’m grateful for the quiet time I do get. In my last post I wrote about not letting the tyranny of perfectionism prevent me from doing the things that I know I like, that are good for me, that are helpful, even if they’re not in perfect packages. But sometimes I’m tired of five minutes here and there. I’m tired of filling my days with a tiny bit of this and that. Some days even the good things feel like one more Should.