Bloom where you are planted, they say.
How about bloom when you are planted.
It’s weird having two kids. And hard. I feel like too many instagrammers make motherhood seem just joyful and blissful and heavenly all the time, and it’s weighing me down. I’m here to say: it’s freaking hard.
I love my boys both so much but most of my days I’m left feeling like I haven’t done enough—haven’t given either child enough of my full attention, haven’t listened to Kyle enough about his day, haven’t cleaned the house enough or called my grandmas enough or worked out enough [at all] or nourished my soul enough, or, or, or…
I know when I am an old lady I’m going to look back on these years and miss them. I know I will. My struggle now is how to hold onto the joyful moments (scarce as they sometimes are) and let go of the overwhelmingly blah ones—or worse, the awful, punch-the-wall-so-you-don’t-punch-your-kid, close-the-bedroom-door-and-weep-for-how-mean-you-just-were-to-someone-you-love, hold-your-face-in-a-pillow-and-scream-until-you-see-spots moments. Those times are the weeds: you’ll never get rid of them completely but you can still grow pretty flowers.
I need to bloom when I am planted.
Here, now, today, this is where I’m planted. This day, this week, this year. This life—it’s hard times, guys. But maybe I can blossom despite it all, if only I can find one thing to love about every day, to habitually go out of my way to stop and think, “Yes. This. This is my purpose for today. This is why I got out of bed.”
Sometimes it might be digging a really massive crusty booger out of my baby’s nose. So satisfying.
It’s true what they say about the days being long but the years being short. Although Hutch has gotten so much better with Holden than he was at the beginning, he still has his moments (hundreds of them daily) where I wonder what the hell I am doing wrong to be raising such a terror. Then I remind myself he’s two. He’s two. And this is how it’s going to be for awhile. So bloom when I am planted.
Isn’t it wonderful? So hopeful, so grounding, so immediate: bloom now, it says. Don’t wait. Do not wait around for that perfect night of nine hours’ sleep, or that glorious tantrum-free day that will probably—surely—never come. Those things are pipe dreams. Just bloom now.
Bloom anyway. Bloom, today, despite those fifty extra pounds, those droopy saggy eyes (and other things [so many things are saggy]), that dull lacklustre hair. Find one way to feel a little pretty today, even if it’s just flossing your fuzzy teeth. BLOOM, DAMMIT.
Sometimes my toddler throws me a bone to get me through the day—like in the photo above. I was taking Holden’s monthly progress photo and Hutch started to cry literal tears because he wanted to get in the picture too. And then both boys gave me smiles for days and I have hundreds of photos just like that, because it was so glorious and lasted so long. And sometimes he cuddles up to Holden and nuzzles his little face and says, “Ho’den is my best. friend. ever.”
And then sometimes (all the times) he fights putting on pants like he’s some kind of revolutionary. A pants-free pioneer.
And sometimes he poops everywhere else except the potty.
And sometimes he cries before bed that his tummy hurts just so we’ll bring him a snack and we know he’s stalling. And other times he’ll cry that his tummy hurts and then he actually throws up and I never know what to believe anymore.
But I can bloom today.
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