Sometimes the world is really heavy. Like heavy.
I know you’re probably expecting me to tell you about politics or something, but I’m not going to do that. That stuff can be heavy, but that’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking about traffic and deadlines and work, work, work. I’m talking about rushing your kids from school to soccer practice. I’m talking about wishing you could spend more time with your kids while they’re little. I’m talking about rolling over to your spouse and realizing they have a few more crow’s feet than they used to.
When did that happen? Didn’t I see them yesterday?
I’m talking about looking in the mirror and not recognizing yourself. About trying to find the balance between family time, me time, and making enough money to survive. Is there a balance? It feels more like a see-saw — always tipping hard in one direction or another.
I’m talking about the mundane. The feelings of “won’t this ever get better/easier/happier?” And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the mundane is heavy sometimes. Really heavy.
But here’s the thing: Maybe the mundane is heavy because it’s where all the joy is hiding.
The day that felt the heaviest was the day I realized that my oldest had probably already crossed the halfway point for living at home. We were no longer climbing up the hill; we were heading down the other side. And I knew that going downhill usually went a lot faster. It would soon be a snowball, and I wouldn’t be able to slow it down at all.
It’s weird how these moments sneak up on us. They’re a little like a Jack-in-the-box. We know it’s coming, and yet it still somehow surprises us.
But the heaviest part of the realization was that I had spent so much of that time wishing the days away. I can’t wait until the weekend. I can’t wait until vacation. Just a few more weeks until the holidays. Just a few more weeks until summer.
I wished away more time than I enjoyed.
And for what? A new car? I didn’t have one. A nice house? Mine was good enough, and I couldn’t afford any better. Why was I wishing away the days? Why was I constantly looking forward to any day except for the day I was experiencing?
The only thing that I could come up with was because society told me to. They told me that life would get better after I graduated college and got a full-time job. It didn’t. It was just different. They told me it would get better after I got married. And then after I had kids. And then once I got the promotion. And then once my kids were out of the toddler stage.
Society told me to live for the weekend. And then it told me to fill those weekends up with little league and activities and a million other things. It told me that as soon as I reached a certain point, life would finally really begin. And it would be good.
But that’s not what happened. Life didn’t start at any of those moments. In fact, life was happening all along. It happened while I studied with friends for a big exam. It happened while I cried to my mom over a broken heart. It happened when I read Romeo & Juliet to my freshmen class.
It happened when my first child was born — when he cried, when he kept me up at night, when he took his first steps. It happened when I got lost in a book, cozy in my bed. It happened when I was lying in the bathroom floor with my sick toddler.
It happened again and again and again. It was happening now. It was happening all the time.
Life was and is always happening. But for some reason, we’re waiting on it. For some magic day when life starts. When it finally means something, I guess.
But maybe today, I’ll enjoy that hot coffee as it runs down my throat and circles around my stomach. Maybe I’ll wrap my arms around my littlest as he crawls into my bed at night instead of wishing I could stretch out. Maybe I’ll wrap up in a blanket and watch my favorite movie instead of cursing the cold weather and wishing it was over. Maybe I’ll draw just for the heck of it, or learn a new hobby, or play the piano — mistakes and all.
Maybe I’ll stop wishing my moments away. Maybe the good stuff is what’s happening during all of that waiting for the next big thing. Maybe those little things are the big things after all.
Maybe I’ll just carry all that weight for a while and see what happens.