As my youngest child prepared to start preschool, I found myself daydreaming about the newfound freedom I would soon enjoy. I envisioned leisurely afternoons exploring antique shops, luxuriating in the steam room at our gym, and sharing a laugh with other moms while I declared, “I’m starting to prune! Time to hop out and catch that movie!” My list of aspirations grew—reading through the Lost Generation section at the library, finally writing that novel at a cozy café, and enjoying peaceful car rides with nostalgic throwback gangster rap, all while imagining a drama-free backseat.
Every time I spotted something I yearned to do but couldn’t because of the kids, I tucked it away in my mental stash of “Fantasy Plans.” With two days a week dedicated to two hours and twenty minutes of personal time, it felt like my dreams were on the brink of realization. After two long years of motherhood, I was ready to refill my cup—because, let’s face it, mine was running dangerously low.
Yet, the first week quickly turned into a whirlwind of errands. I had a long-overdue doctor’s appointment to tackle and new brakes to install on the car. No worries, I thought; I had the entire year ahead of me. The following week, however, was a different story. My middle daughter’s birthday demanded my attention—gifts, cake, decorations, and even a piñata. By the end of that day, I was frazzled and yet to indulge in a single enjoyable moment for myself. But I reassured myself, “I’ve got a whole year of free mornings waiting!”
Reality hit when the following week, my eldest daughter came down with a nasty virus. “What do you mean I can’t drop her off if she’s throwing up?” I exclaimed to the teacher, dragging her lifeless body back to the car. “You said other kids already have it! Just give her a trash can and stick her in the corner; I want to relax in the steam room!”
Before I knew it, my “me time” was slipping away. “Sure, I’ll help collate those buzz books,” I told my middle daughter’s teacher, completely by accident. “Of course I can assist with the book fair setup!” I assured the room parent the next day. And just like that, my schedule filled up with requests: homemade purple Play-Doh due tomorrow? No problem. A dental cleaning on Friday? Sure, I can make it work.
Before I realized it, December arrived, and my personal plans were buried under holiday obligations. I was knee-deep in stocking stuffer dilemmas and Christmas preparations. How was I supposed to find time for myself when I barely had a moment to breathe? I kept telling myself that the new year would finally bring the freedom I craved. Four hours of peace each week were just around the corner, and I vowed to protect that time fiercely.
By February, however, reality set in. I was racing between three different Office Depots hunting for Canon #124 printer ink. Spring break was looming, and my novel was still just scattered notes in a worn spiral notebook. Our Christmas wreath still hung, covered in dust, and the antique shop was closing down. I found myself grappling once again with the blurred lines between my life and my children’s.
As we entered our third year of preschool, those “Fantasy Plans” were a rarity. A walk here and a breakfast with a friend there were the only glimpses of my past aspirations. I clung to the hope that kindergarten was only two years away, assuring myself that then I would finally have all the time I needed. Please, don’t burst that bubble.
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In summary, motherhood is a challenging but rewarding journey filled with dreams that often take a backseat to everyday responsibilities. As we navigate the chaos, the hope of reclaiming our personal time keeps us motivated—kindergarten is just around the corner.
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