Heart-eyes

I was in a massive, massive funk the last week. I felt so sad and stressed out for no logical reason--worried about the baby, worried about giving birth (I was 34 weeks, right around the time I start worrying the baby is going to come super early), worried about every (very normal) contraction I was feeling, tired, tired, tired beyond reason, and having a hard time vocalizing any of these concerns so I was stuck in this funk by myself. And every time the boys did anything normal but relatively vexing I got so frustrated. Not eating their lunch, fighting over one of our FIVE MILLION HOT WHEELS CARS (seriously, how can you keep both wanting the same ONE car???), whining because they wanted snacks--my patience was very, very thin and I had no reserves left to respond appropriately. There wasn't anything specifically wrong, but for some reason I couldn't bounce back to my normal level of happiness.

Things turned around this morning. I couldn't face another long morning at home and had nothing to do with the boys, so with a flash of brilliance I took them to an over-priced children's play museum where I could just sit and watch them have fun. And oh boy, did they have fun. I felt my emotionally bruised heart healing as I watched them run around delivering plastic vegetables to different houses in their wheelbarrows and taking off in their rocketship to the moon. I was enamored with how creative they were (okay, mostly Dane), pretending to create a gas station for the massive wooden trucks he was playing with and getting all the baby dolls dressed in different outfits. I remembered how much I LOVE them and how I think they are the cutest kids on the planet, and I felt so grateful that I get to be with them every day. It's hard to not take it for granted and to wish it were otherwise sometimes.

I also spent the afternoon reading some ancestors' stories. I am still working on my family history book, where I'm trying to compile and condense the stories of as many ancestors as I can for my kids. (It will literally be a never-ending project, I am realizing.) And those stories give me so much strength when I'm feeling weak. How can I think my life is hard when I compare it to the strong women who came before me? I look at my pioneer ancestors who crossed the plains, my Icelandic great-great-grandmothers who lost baby after baby, my great-grandmothers who raised their families on their own and without much money. Being a mother IS hard, but I come from hardy stock. My mom likes to remind us that her ancestors who were in the Martin handcart company came through without a scratch, and that the kids even thought of it as an adventure--none of them died or even suffered in that horrible tragedy. That's who I come from... so I can do hard things. And like a quote that I have on my wall from Little Women: "I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to steer my ship."

I can do hard things... like the last, interminable, stressful, worry-filled month before a baby comes. I can do it.