Well it’s happened. Three out of five of our darlings are now double digits and I’m not handling this as well as I should be, this defining life-time achievement. They say time flies when you’re having fun but guess what: it also flies when you’re barely hanging on. Or so I’ve learned.
These last ten years have been an adventure to put it lightly. And I’m looking back thinking of so many things I wish I could undo. That’s the melancholy-depressive me talking, the you’re-not-good-enough me, the you’ve-really-done-a-number-on-these-FIVE-kids, ugly-voice me.
She’s all up in my business right now telling me what I didn’t do, what I should do, and what I can’t undo. The crazy spin she puts me on.
Dear. God. Help.
And I just want to tell our Dot that I’ve done the best I could with what I’ve had. Cop out? Nah, truth. I’m doing the best I can and grace, grace, grace, when I get it wrong and fail and miss the everything beautiful that is today, and this breath, and this one, and this. God, I wish I could get it right all the time.
To love regardless and flawless and not this damn busted-up kind of love, the broke kind. And time doesn’t give do-overs, no call-backs on these last ten years. It won’t wait for all the shoulds to be in place. It just rolls on like a river, sometimes raging, sometimes calm, but always moving.
So I tell “ugly voice” to shut up and the voice of the real me gets a little louder and says: cheers to your double digits, darling. Here’s to many more. Roll on, baby. Roll on.