I am sitting outside, beyond the kitchen sliding door, on a tired and well stained cushion with one arm over my head and the other on a partially puppy chewed armrest. The sun is high and warm, glowing red underneath my closed lids. I inhale. It’s “rest time” inside. Originally implemented to ensure naps for toddlers, it’s now a means for me to catch my own breath. I exhale.
I’m struggling with the shift in my family. Five of my children are young adults now and busy with their own lives, interests, schooling, and work. Four of my children are young enough to need my complete attention, and two of those have special needs. I try to think of what it was like when I was mothering four small children, without helpers, so long ago; I’m sure I was just as tired. Tired, but like twenty years younger. Now I’m just tired. And a grandmother, while still raising my own five year old. I open my eyes to the caws and shadows made by black crows as they fly over.
“I don’t know how you do it.” This. T…