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Weekends are definitely not a break when you are a parent of small children. In fact, I get less time to myself on the weekend than I do during the work week. Granted, when I’m in the office, the time is not truly my own either, but I at least have moments when I don’t have someone or something needing, wanting, demanding my attention or focus.

It’s not a complaint. I adore this stage in my life. I adore my girls. Home ownership. My marriage. But I find that by the end of every day I am completely drained. I don’t have anything left to give those in my life who aren’t in my immediate nuclear family. After pacing after Courtland, monitoring her every move, mindlessly, constantly following, watching, helping, cooking dinner, picking up toys, clipping burrs out of the dogs’ fur, changing yet another diaper, washing the clothes, managing Sunny’s emotional meltdowns, bath time, bed time, routine routine routine…  I am spent. And all I want to do is collapse on the couch and not talk. Not think. But just be. Me. So I knit myself into a zen sense of quiet. Or I mindlessly edit photos, load them to the blog, and catalogue the highlights – those sparks in my day that are the reason I slog through the routine. That are the reason I truly do love my life. Being a parent.

I carve out this space that is mine in a day that otherwise isn’t.

And I get up the next day and do it all again. So that I can continue to have moments like that of a walk with my family on a cold November morning. Because I am so so fortunate to be able to claim this as my life, and these people as my own.