Sometimes I think I have the best life ever. Three cute kids. Handsome, talented, ambitious husband. Live in New York City. Spend my time pretty much how I want: writing, running, cooking, reading, playing with small children. I even get to sleep past 8:00am every now and then.
I get to be home with my kids. Watch them grow. Answer their questions. Wipe their snotty noses. I get to hear them laugh and watch them make breakthroughs from rolling over to potty training to building the awesomest train track ever.
I get to be there for my husband, supporting him as he brings home the bacon. A kiss and a smile when he comes in the door. A dish made just because I know it’s one of his favorites. (I know, I know. #sorryfeminists)
I get to do my own things, too. Running longer and faster, jotting down notes for story ideas, taking pictures so it’ll all last longer.
But sometimes I think I have the worst life ever. Three kids in a tiny apartment. No yard. Handsome husband who works really hard. Wasting my time doing things that I only hope, someday, will mean something to someone. And going to bed at 1:00am simply because there were so many dishes to do and crumbs on the floor and books to put away and e-mail to respond to that 1:00 was the first chance I had to sit down, relax, let go.
And I’m the one at home with the kids, the one who has to be patient through the rounds and rounds of circular questioning. The one who has to clean up the accidents. The one who feels lucky to talk to another adult on any given day (besides Micah, of course). I wonder if this consequence or that reward is the right one. If using that tone of voice will alienate my child or get him to pay attention. If I’m on the right track with this homeschool thing, or taking the shortcut to guilt-ridden insanity.
And I’m the one whose talents are a hobby rather than a career. The one who only wishes I could spend more time on them. The one who sits on the couch with the laptop rather than in the office chair in front of the desktop. The one who only wonders if I really could make it in the working world rather than actually making it in the working world.
And I run to get away, I write out my frustrations, I take pictures of what’s happy so those are the images that stay.
And then I choose, again, to have the best life ever. And I’ll chose it again tomorrow. And the next day and the next day and the next day.
I’ll keep choosing the best life ever because that is what I want to have: the best life ever.