It’s been another one of those days.

After an angsty week of desperately trying to get to the computer to get some much-needed work done, I was going to spend a few hours this morning working on my proposal and putting up a few new posts.  Breakfast with a friend, then pick up my daughter from the youth car wash, then home by 11:00.  Three hours to write before getting ready and going out with my husband for the afternoon/evening.  Great.

Breakfast is pushed back.  No problem.  I roll with it, and am actually thankful for the extra sleep.  (Never mind that my dedicated friend I was meeting for breakfast got in a RUN during that time while my pudgy little butt was in bed…) I get to the car wash, and my daughter has yet to actually WASH a CAR, her talents having been put to better use hollering to get people’s attention.  Traffic is bad.  I’m not home until after 1:00.  The kids need showers and packed for the evening.  I can’t find an outfit I like that fits.  My closet has exploded all over the floor, and I’m NOT A HAPPY CAMPER.  I’m not in the shower until after two.  We have to leave at 3:15 for our show.

Oh, and guess what started while I was in the shower?

While you’re at it, guess who is NOT IN THE MOOD for a date night, now?

Sigh.  I must regroup.  My husband has been looking forward to this night for WEEKS.  I need to pull it together and get over the fact that I feel like crap and my clothes don’t fit and I’m fighting with my new bangs and my entire day/week/month has been shot to hell and I’d really, frankly, just rather spend my evening writing.

My life is not my own.  This has been my constant complaint.

Perhaps it really is a constant reminder.

My life is not my own.  It was bought with a price.  And mine is lived, day after day, at a cost.

Everything comes at a cost.  Giving of myself tonight for my husband comes at a cost to what I’d really rather be doing.  This time, I need to just gut it up and pay out.  Whether I feel fat or not.  Whether I feel romantic or not.  Whether I feel like it, or not.

Tonight, I lay it all down again.

Tomorrow I will do the same, for someone else.

My desperate prayer is that somewhere in the midst of paying it out, somewhere in midst of taking care of everyone else, somewhere in the midst of just doing what working moms do, that which keeps falling to the wayside will be placed front and center for a while.  Oh to do what I want to do for a while, without guilt or angst or constraints on that time.

But it’s not MY time.  It’s not my time.

My life is not my own.

My time is not my own.

My body is not my own.

My words are not my own.

They are bought with a price.

Oh for the grace to live in that with peace…

acceptance balance balanced living body image depression despair dieting discipline faith fear god spiritual disciplines trust weight writing