Sticky
I walk into the kitchen after dropping off the littles at school and go to set down my purse only to realize the bottom is sticky. THIS must be the culprit behind my sticky arm. And my sticky armrest in the car. And the sticky something on my shorts.
“Why is everything sticky?” I say out loud to an empty house.
I look around at my you-can-tell-the-kids-cleaned-it kitchen and discover the source. Syrup on the kitchen table.
I’m hit with a small familiar wave of overwhelm. That anxiety-ridden thought cycle I’ve had to learn to undo. It goes something like this:
- Everything is ALWAYS a mess
- Why are the kids so messy
- Why is there so. much. trash. everywhere.
- We can’t have nice things
- UGHHHHHHHH!!!!
- Everything sucks
And then I go for a run because it clears space in my head for things that are real.
Life has been particularly sticky lately. Navigating teenagers is no small feat. That manual we all joke about? I so wish I had one.
And littles ending the school year…don’t get me started on what working from home will look like this summer. I wrote landing page copy yesterday while listening to my 10-year-old regale me with the tale of how she broke her thumb. (It’s not really broken.)
But here’s the thing. It’s sticky because it’s real.
We all want the pretty Instagram life. Because it looks neat and tidy.
But it’s not real.
Raising kids is messy.
Starting a business at 42…so ridiculously messy.
Pretending you know anything about life…yup. Messy.
I spent the remainder of my morning running a kid to the dentist, networking, and adjusting social media content for a client. I eventually wipe down that sticky spot on the kitchen table and I realize I wouldn’t trade all the sticky syrup in the world for a pretty Instagram life.
Ok, maybe sometime. Like, once a week it would be great if the house was clean.
