I quit my job about 3.5 months ago. Brennan got a new job, making more money than me, and I was due with a baby in a couple of months. I didn't want to cut back and lose maternity leave, and I didn't want to stay full-time and try to find daycare, so I quit.
Before I quit, I was the breadwinner, something I think a lot of women in the area I live haven't experienced. And it felt, really, really good. I love being a nurse. I am passionate about my field of work. I loved my coworkers. Almost every shift was exciting and fulfilling. I am grateful to be home too, and be with my babies. But it isn't easy.
Someone recently asked me what I do all day... I just kind of sat there, blankly staring for a minute.
"Well, I just take care of the girls. I cook. I clean. I change a lot of diapers. I nurse. I rock a colicky baby. I play with a toddler.... occasionally I sneak in a show for myself, or read, or journal, but not usually."
I know it isn't something I should feel ashamed of, but I do sometimes. I feel so damn busy, and I have nothing to really show for it. Like, I honestly feel like I killed it if I get all three of us dressed and ready at some point in the day.
Every once in awhile though I get these moments, where the heavens seem to smile down, and I see just what all of my "nothingness" is doing.
Olive grins at me.
Maggie tells me a letter I taught her a week ago.
The sun shines trickles through the windows of our home and it feels so peaceful amidst the chaos, and I think all of that actually has something to do with me, and what I'm doing.
So today, I chose to ignore the dirty house and the toddler singing in her room when she should be napping, and write down these thoughts.
I might not be doing anything but putting out fires, but someone has got to do it. And I feel glad that it's me.
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