In the last month, we took a two-week trip by car, spent time with the in-laws, and most recently, were snowed in, as a family, for the last eight days. (The “by car” part is important because I back-seat drive. A lot. I even slam my foot on an imaginary brake if I’m feeling like we’re going to slam into the car in front of us. Funny, right? Not really, because it drives him insane.) Add to that the stress and pressures of travel and holidays and the drudgery of returning to the grind in January temperatures.
Then, because you’re me, top it with starting an extremely rigorous 10-week gut healing protocol during which we have to eat like saints, abstain from alcohol and take supplements six times a day…including one that tastes a little bit like mud. (It’s basically a Whole 30, twice, minus the coffee, plus the mud.) And, because I’m a glutton for punishment, why not throw in a significant ramp-up of my communications consulting business.
Naturally, all that might explain the curious absence of blog posts over the last month. But, more importantly, if you mix all that stuff up in this bowl we call marriage you have quite the recipe. A spectacular recipe, actually. For…well…how should I say it? The F word.
I have the coolest friends. Like, seriously. Musicians, mega-moms, artists, writers, moguls—you name it, I know one. Some of them are all those things! I can’t imagine my life without them. I’ve been curating and counting on them for years.
The tough part is, I lost touch with many of them the last half decade when I had my head so far down in my work. So, I thought it might be fun to bring showing up to light with the people whose opinions I trust and value most.
I figured I would just start through the list, alphabetically. Just kidding. With Andi, I actually felt inspired to start with a fellow leaner-outer. As I explore this new normal of work-life presence, I wanted to pick someone else’s brain about it.
TRUTH: Sometimes the clean laundry pile at the foot of the bed towers bigger than the bed itself. Sometimes the dishes pile up twice the height of the sink and the dirty pots and pans spill over onto the grimy stovetop. Sometimes the boys’ toilet, if I even bother to look at it, looks like a gas station toilet that hasn’t been cleaned for days.
And sometimes, I have one of those weeks, a week that hasn’t even really started, where I start to see it all and feel the oppression of it all and I can’t help but say to myself, “What do I have to show for myself? This life? This laundry mountain, this dish disaster, this biohazard toilet? Where has all the time gone?”
Then I think: I can’t be the only one.