It’s a combination, really – the hallway, too small; the clothing, too voluminous; the gear, too awkward; the necessities, too numerous; the children, defiant; my patience, plummeting.
Before we even leave the house, I want to abandon plans, empty my arms and turn around. But I know, the pile of clothing will impede my way, I will trip over the gear, and the children will inevitably follow me, assaulting me with cries, tears, waving arms.
There are days when motherhood leaves me feeling little more than completely encumbered.
Winter. The weight of winter, of endless grey, of the opressive cold; the weight of child + child + bag + stroller + sippy cups + + + + +
Sometimes it is the noise; sometimes it is the needs. Sometimes I wonder if being a mother means simply, being a Sherpa, adding compartment after compartment to an already overburdened load. Sometimes I wonder how much I can actually hold.
And then I take a deep breath; deafen myself to the whining, blind myself to the mess and gather up my kids and our things. My kids. Our things. We leave the house.
The air is crisp and the wind is cold, but the sky is wide and the streets are quiet. The children make it into the stroller and a shaky sense of purpose, a glimmer of peace, replaces chaos. We walk, and I let the thought swirl around me, replacing the snow: Spring will come. Spring will come. Spring will come.