An unfinished painting; seven crocheted rows of another (failed) attempt at giving life to the pattern I see in my head; an empty Pages document that taunts me with its emptiness; a messy house; a diapered toddler who still isn't potty training; laundry piling up again.
All mixed with exhaustion from too many late nights, too many demands, too many fights, too much whining.
I'm not ready to think the thought that I'm not as young as I used to be.
But . . .
Just a few years ago, it seemed that I was most passionate when only getting small amounts of sleep.
Or perhaps the only difference is that before, I chose to stay up all night. Yes, I had regular, horrific nightmares that made it very difficult to sleep. But the choice was always mine. To chance another nightmare or to stay awake; writing, reading, thinking.
Now, it is my children with the regular nightmares. Now, it is my littlest child restless from cutting teeth. Now, it is my oldest daughter terrified of sleeping. Now, it is my oldest momentarily forgetting how to use the bathroom.
And I have no choice.
It is my duty to care for these children during the night. A duty I cherish. (Honest.)
It's just that, sometimes, I am almost painfully aware of Kim sleeping peacefully through every nightly disturbance.
In those moments, it's easy to feel resentful. To believe the lie that I sacrifice so much while Kim does nothing to help. To forget that I wouldn't give up these nightly disturbances for anything.