Thursday, November 18, 2010


I am tired.
More to the point, my joy is exhausted, depleted, empty and pinging annoyingly at me as I push myself just one step farther.
It's the time of year, when missing my Daddy becomes a deep ache and my eyes fill with tears at the very thought.
It's the bone deep mama tired from juggling birthdays and holidays, field trips and homework without reprieve.
Just so my babies joy stays full.
It's every worry about selling a house, paying a bill, squeezing in one last chore before the day ends.
My glee is gone.
And I'm sort of okay with that.
I'm the person that is content with content.
I don't expect every day to be full of giggles and good wishes.
If it was, I'd probably run screaming from the room.
I have moments of pure bliss, mostly when the heathens are being sweet, that slide through my bones like sweet lightning, charging me for the next foray into the wild world.
But I know I'm lacking in the joy department.
But as long as my kids have sucked the very marrow from life's happiness, I'm okay with it.

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