If I were to count the piles, I bet I’d have ten loads of laundry to do. That is, if I had them in piles yet. Today, I have refereed shouting matches, scrubbed paint out of the carpet (again), folded clothes, made meals, played UNO (for the 4,521st time), and swept floors.
Normal, everyday stuff. Mom stuff.
Some days it feels mundane. Overwhelmingly, mind numbingly (spell check says that’s not a word. It should be), everyday.
This time of year where we live, the air is bad. Bad enough that the kids spend more time indoors for recess than outdoors some weeks. Bad enough that my lame health issues are intensified in a way that leaves me dragging and flattened a little too often.
The ordinary and mundane is mixed with fatigue and an annoying buzz of pain.
If I’m not careful, I feel swallowed by all of it. It happens.
But recently, I’ve been reminded that the everyday, the mundane, the ordinary can be celebrated. Should be celebrated. Because they are what makes my life full and what it is.
They are UNO games and walking to school. Laundry piles with clothes my kids are growing out of, and dishes stacked in the sink after a dinner where we discussed important–and unimportant–things.
They are afternoons with coloring books and crayons.
They are ordinary. And they are mine.
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