No one ever told me about the purposeless I would fight as a stay-at-home mom. It’s hard to keep perspective when the days all blur together like Groundhog Day.
Conceptually I know what I’m doing is important … but the monotonous reality of my day to day life right now tries to convince me otherwise.
I’m available when my kids need me. (Mostly these days its to get them a snack. Or a 74th snack.)
I’m physically and emotionally present when their friends (who have single working parents) come over after school. Every. Single. Day.
I listen to the daily details of 5th grade girl drama and put up with the banality (and grossness) of 8-year-old boy humor.
I remind them to do their daily responsibilities, break up arguments and pick up the absurdly disproportionate amount of socks and shoes left all over the house.
I’m just … here.
I love them by my presence.
But I never envisioned that at 42 my life would look like this.
Changing from my early morning sweatpants, night hoodie and slippers to my lycra leggings, day hoodie and slip on athletic shoes. (What does it mean that that is now even a thing I count as an activity?!)
I make breakfast, find leftovers or make a sandwich for lunch and plan dinner.
I make a trip to the grocery store roughly once a week.
I find one or two things to clean around the house.
I ride the bike trainer in the garage or on warm days go for a run.
I work on the table I’m refinishing for someone.
Sometimes I ignore the To Do’s and I sit on the couch and read.
I visit the thrift store or meet a friend for coffee.
I listen to podcasts.
But when it comes to the end of the day, I don’t often have anything to show for my time. Sure … sometimes there’s chicken enchiladas in the oven or a new loaf of sourdough sitting on the island. Or a new batch of kombucha. Or sometimes the laundry is washed and put away. Or the pantry is organized. But often when I reflect back on my day I have no physical evidence of how I spent my time.
The things I used to look at at the end of the day to prove to myself that I was worthy? The schedule I followed? The physical list of things with checkmarks next to them? The important meetings I had? The content I produced? That doesn’t exist anymore.
And it’s taken me a while (okay who am I kidding … it IS taking me a while) to make peace with that.
Identity and worthiness are weird. Each time something that provides a source of identity or worthiness gets stripped away from me, there’s a feeling of lostness and a subsequent struggle to find it elsewhere.
But knowing what I know about God, He will continue to gently strip away the sources of false identity to nudge me toward fully accepting my true identity as his beloved just because of who I am.