I want a small life. Of course, that encompasses a lot of things – tidy, happy home, daily mass, evenings outside with closest friends, parcheesi with my boys, Summer book reading (if you were wondering, Summer Reading consists of, and only of, Food/Travel Memoirs, and Food/Travel Mysteries – but not the gory or overly-exciting kind. More like the slightly-thrilling-cum-vintagey-romance kind.), grilling, margaritas, singing, and a very very empty calendar.
I want time to sit around with Snert and halfway listen to him tell me all the new names of his stuffed animal “friends”, and how Happy the Dog has been rechristened “Chaser” because it’s a “more dogger name”. I want lots of evenings alone with Cisco. I guess saying that I want a “small life” with all of that is like saying that I want ice cream and weight loss, but I do. I want my days to breathe and deflate a little so that I can fill them up with whatever I want. Aw geez, that was a little writery, but it just slipped out. Next I’m going to two-step around the sun while my dreams soar like eagles on the breeze of reinvention. Or something.
But I really do want my days free to be filled with whatever I want. I want to fill them up with my babies, damn Infertility.
Thy will be done, Thy will be done, Thy will be done, Thy will be done.
I think I’ve felt for a long time like that is some kind of very selfish goal. Or at least unworthy. And I’m declaring now that that is BS. It’s not to say that I may some day be called to a Great Big Good, but I don’t think that I am at the moment. Right now it’s so simple. I’m called to make a happy home. I am called to work and smile, to laugh and labor. And live love eat pray squat nosh kiss slurp keep carry and calm on. I wish my stupid heed could hold that thought.