I don’t want to adult today.
The idea of even getting out of bed is a challenge. I would rather go back to the days of nap time, juice boxes, and shoes with Velcro closures.
Those first few moments waking up feel that way because it’s a no-responsibility zone. Most mornings, especially Monday mornings such as after Christmas break, the choice of being an adult makes it slightly more difficult to get out of bed. My Facebook feed is full of friends in protest about adulting.
The struggle is real, folks.
Especially when my 9-year-old comes barreling downstairs with the full force of Avengers five heroes and pounces on my body. Especially when he forgets I hate loud noise in the mornings, and he lands all 84 pounds of his boy self on my broken foot. Especially when I arrive at work only to discover I was supposed to be on jury duty and I’m placed on hold waiting to hear if the judge is going to hold me in contempt.
I wonder for a brief moment or two, “Does this mean no adulting? As in I get to sit in timeout somewhere?”
Then it begs the question, does this mean I won’t have to plan dinner? It sounds almost appealing. Almost.
I prefer to wake up in the quiet of the day and prepare my game face so I can be the adult. This usually includes pleading with Jesus about the struggles of having to mother three crazy, loud kids when he created me with an extra dose of sensitivity to noise. My mornings with Jesus prepare me to adult and to be his hands and feet. But on days such as today, I would rather declare war and boycott adulting by rioting in my pajamas, ignoring bills, phone calls, cleaning and all other responsibilities it takes to make sure my children aren’t spending too much time on their tablets or choking on something.
My children would run with it. They would eat ice cream or lasagna from the night before for breakfast.
I look at my kids and reminiscence about being their ages, 7, 9 and 16 — the ages of innocence, lack of responsibilities and bills, the ages when life was magical.
As in this past weekend when my family took a car ride into the country after stopping at Dairy Queen for treats because after three weeks in a boot for my broken foot, I was a little antsy to get out of the house and go anywhere other than my La-Z-Boy chair.
The kids sat in the back seat gobbling up their ice cream cones and arguing who’s cone was biggest. They didn’t have to worry about directions, gas, or where they were going. They could cuddle in their snugglies and watch the stars come out, thanks to our oversized sunroof.
I look at them, and it reminds me of the no-adulting phase.
Being a kid meant someone else was handling life like a boss — breakfast, laundry, bedtime and playmates were already taken care of. Coming from a family of eight, I already had my best friends and didn’t have to try to develop working relationships. If we got mad at each other, we either punched it out or Mom settled it. Minutes to hours later, bruises and all, we were friends again.
Being a kid also meant dreaming, dressing up and making imaginary houses for Barbie and trying on confidence like a dress as I learned to be Heather.
And that’s when I remember why adulting has its perks. My first road trip with girlfriends, tattoos, coffee and deciding how I would wear my hair, as in not the braids my mom used to put my messy hair in.
At least I do get to decide what to make for supper (takeout) and I get to decide when bedtime is tonight. So at lteast there is some solace in that right?
Many hugs to you dear fellow reader. Lean on Jesus and he will def help you get through adulting this week!
Heather Riggleman has lived in Kearney 15 years. She is addicted to coffee and loves a good run, is a full-time mother of three, author, and journalist. She is learning to accept the mess after chasing perfect for too many years.