I wish I could do it all. I so wish I could do it all. But, of course, I can’t. So I make sacrifices.
I sacrifice time to get caught up so we can do more extended bedtime routines.
I sacrifice showers for sleep. (Not every day…ha!)
I sacrifice vacations and extras and financial freedom to stay at home.
I sacrifice parenting ideals (hello, tv, I’m looking at you and how much you’re on) for sanity.
I sacrifice a picked up house for home-cooked meals (at least that why I think the house winds up completely trashed by the end of the night even though it wasn’t so slammed during the day).
I sacrifice time so we can commute to take Gabe to a school that’s a better fit for him.
These sacrifices don’t always feel good, but for one reason or another they feel right, or right for now, at least.
Lately, though, I’ve been making some sacrifices that don’t feel as right to me. Take writing, for instance. I’ve sacrificed writing to allow more time for things that feel more pressing. Exercise is another. I can’t remember the last time I ran or did yoga. There’s a lot of inertia around these parts. It’s that way in several facets of life, each one an area that feeds my soul. I’m sacrificing the important for the urgent, which is sometimes unavoidable, but I’m not sure it makes a good lifestyle.
I’m not sure how to carve a path back, though. Often, it feels more like I’m jumping from one fire to the next rather than intentionally ordering my days. Is it that way for everyone? I don’t know.
I don’t want to live frantic, but I do want to make different sacrifices. I’m just not sure what should stay and what should go. I want to make the right sacrifices, the best sacrifices for me so I can dwell fully in these years of mothering littles (and a sort-of-maybe-I-can-admit-it-getting-kind-of-big kid, too).