Another way . . .

Went to see my Endocrinologist the other day.  He reminds me of a nerdy Robert Duvall.  I like him – even though he won’t up my meds which I’m convinced would make me skinny.

He had a med student with him and he had me tell her the whole story.  Good reminder of all that was going on this time last year.

Hard to believe next week it’ll be a year since I received my scar.  My everyday reminder that my life was saved.

And somehow, there are days that I don’t even notice it.

And I start to forget.

I can honestly say that I live my life a little differently, though.  I mean, I think I am more grateful for the little things and the big things and the things in between.

But, last year when all this was going down, I really thought that having cancer and surviving it would completely and utterly change everything about my life.

Seriously, there was something deep down inside me that truly believed that we would sell everything we own, load up the kids and dogs and move to a little cottage near the beach.

I can’t complain – I have a wonderful life that I’m so incredibly blessed to have.  An a-maz-ing husband, the most phenomenal girls, friends that inspire me, a good job, a house with a porch and a yard and two dogs to poop in it.  It is a good life.  And I’m grateful.

But I find myself wanting more of the home-life than the daily grind-life.  I find myself saying that I would rather have more time with my kids than have more zeros at the end of my paycheck.  I find myself wishing for a windfall – not to spend on exotic vacations or a fancy car (except maybe a minivan that has one of those automatic door opener things).

I just want more time with these little girls who are growing up way too fast.

The two hour commute home yesterday about did me in.  I cried.  Not because of the cars that stood still in between me and the daycare.  Not because of frustration over the lack of movement.  But because I count the minutes that I have with them each night – and traffic stole way too many of them yesterday.

Sweet Henley is a 7:30 bedtime girl.  I’ve tried keeping her up later, but she is a great sleeper (can’t complain about that).  But, when we typically pick them up at 5:00 – 2 and a half hours a day is NOT enough.   Especially when most of that is in the car on the way home and preparing dinner.

And Emma tells me every day that she misses me at school.  I know she has fun, but yesterday when we were so late picking them up, she looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, “I wanted you to pick me up early.”

It’s not mothers guilt.  That has nothing to do with this.  That emotion is saved for other things.  Many other things.

This is working mom heartache.

I just feel like there has to be another way.  But I don’t know what it is.


One thought on “Another way . . .

  1. I hate that about this life. I’m sorry. I wish I had a fix. Of course, if we all moved in the same house in the urbs (not sub-urbs) we could live on less and make a smaller footprint on the earth. Pf course that brings clout another set of issues!

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