Every so often, my thoughts drift back to simpler times, to the days when I was just me. I can still picture myself perched on the roof late at night, enjoying the breathtaking thunderstorms of Kansas while chatting on the phone. The scent of rain mingling with the warm shingles is a memory that lingers.
I fondly recall the luxury of sleeping in on weekend mornings, knowing I had no obligations to rush into. I could bask in the comfort of my bed for as long as I desired, taking my time to rise and shine.
Driving down those winding country roads with the windows rolled down and the radio blasting was a delight. The sweet summer air filled my lungs as I enjoyed the thrill of being flirted with at stoplights. Ah, those were the days.
I remember spending an hour getting ready, yet somehow always managing to be fashionably late. Going to the store alone was a treat, wandering the mall, dining out without having to get up even once during the meal. My stress revolved around whether a guy would call, who was dating whom, or the horror of having no plans on a Friday night.
It wasn’t selfishness; it was simply a time of living for myself. I had no one else to be accountable for. I was spontaneous, a romantic at heart, a dreamer. I couldn’t foresee how different life would become once that chapter closed.
It’s easy to idealize those carefree moments of the past when you’re deep into the whirlwind of motherhood. I always envisioned a significant life, one that would make a difference. Little did I know how small a “big” life can feel. I’m not out saving the world with the Peace Corps as I once dreamed. Travel plans to Africa fell through, and I haven’t tackled global issues like human trafficking.
Now, my days often involve being pulled away from lunch to provide moral support during toilet training. I’m pouring juice, changing diapers, and feeling overwhelmed when my toddler throws a tantrum, despite my best efforts. A trip to Target becomes my escape from the chaos. My tasks include spoon-feeding, preparing sandwiches, folding laundry (and refolding it when little hands get involved), cleaning bathrooms while my older child “helps” by spraying water everywhere, and trying to keep everything in order—only to do it all over again the next day. I still struggle to match my husband’s socks and keep track of everyone’s belongings.
Amidst the chaos, I wake up to my child’s sweet voice asking for snuggles. The sounds of joyful toddler songs and baby babbles fill my home. I hear “I wub you too,” and I’m showered with slobbery kisses. Singing “You Are My Sunshine” on repeat has become my new norm, with a little one constantly attached to my hip. I skip makeup and pants, making quick showers a rare luxury, yet my husband reassures me I’m beautiful.
Sometimes, I do find myself reminiscing about those uncomplicated days before motherhood. Those thoughts linger, sometimes for an afternoon, depending on the day’s challenges. Still, I always return to my present—my boys and my partner—and I’d choose this life again and again.
One day, I’ll sleep in again, and I’ll long for that tiny voice to wake me up early. I’ll journey around the globe and reminisce about spending hours building Legos. I’ll miss the mini laundry that comes with tiny clothes and the fingerprints on my windows and mirrors. I’ll drive without buckling car seats and yearn for the conversations with my little ones in the store. I’ll miss the overflowing bag of diapers, wipes, Hot Wheels, and my excuse to carry Teddy Grahams.
Though the days feel long, the years slip by too quickly. I may not have saved the world yet, but the romantic dreamer in me is alive and thriving. The greatest dream I’ve ever had is my reality now, and I’m utterly in love with it.
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In summary, while I sometimes look back fondly at the past, the fulfillment and joy of motherhood far surpass those memories. It’s a beautiful chaos that I wouldn’t trade for anything.
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