the identity of me

So the other day dada went on over to Ikea and bought honest-to-God-full-price shelves. Matching shelves. The shelves I have been lusting after for...um, years? (I know, disturbing, I will get back to that in a minute)

 

 

I literally sit in my mama chair in the morning sipping coffee and gaze lovingly at them. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Ah!

 

And I told dada, as we exclaimed to each other over and over "Gosh I just LOVE those shelves!," that I feel like I am a "real adult" now that we have gone out and purchased full price furniture to match our other furniture.

 

Okay, so now back to the disturbing part.

Disturbing, in that shelves excite me so much. Disturbing in that this is the most exciting thing that will happen in my world...for weeks? Disturbing in that this makes me feel like an accomplished adult (whereas having three children and getting two graduate degrees between us does not?)

What has happened to me?

 

I never thought I would be the domestic type. Like making baked oatmeal just for kicks at home in my slippers on a Tuesday afternoon, baby strapped to my chest asleep, while herding two soccer playing children into another room (ONLY IN THE HALL!) And yes, this is EXACTLY what I did this afternoon. In slippers.

 

So. My life. You know?

 

I thought I would be gallavanting around the world, babies in tow, while dada takes care of them so I can do Big and Important work (capital B, capital I).

But, I am not. And here is the thing, the crux of the matter as it were, I love it.

 

I. LOVE. IT.

 

BUT I am realizing, in this 30-something identity crisis I am having of late, IT BOTHERS ME THAT I LOVE IT.

I think that is it.

 

Like, I am feeling unsettled at how settled I am. Does that make sense? All of this came out last night as I was talking with a friend (OUTSIDE OF THE HOUSE, no I did not wear yoga pants) with a glass of wine in hand...Suddenly I realize as I am saying it, that I am content, but that scares me.

So, the question is, WHY? Why, for GOD'S SAKE, is it so hard for me to be okay with loving my life as it is?? I feel like I ought to want more. I DO want more, of course, but not right now necessarily. Logistically it would be so hard. And five years from now I can slide back into some kind of career, consulting or whatnot, and it'll happen, no worries. But, for now, I am content. With sweeping the floors three times a day, making matching pajamas for my girls, exclaiming over my baby starting to crawl, and the fact that I made my own laundry detergent (which I really should share here, it is WONDERFUL)

And there I go again. Wonderful homemade laundry soap. It scares me that I just wrote that.

 

See what I am getting at here?

Do I almost feel guilty that I dont want more? Like I am letting that ambitious 25 year old down for not writing a novel or traveling the world or using my degrees?

I don't know. Obviously I am still trying to figure it out. Hence the writing of the convoluted thoughts that you, my friends, get the privilege of reading. (Sarcasm. HA.)

Mainly, maybe, I am letting my dreams change, my vision of myself and who I thought I would be, as I push through the mid-thirties to the nearer side of 40. (EEK) I am not the mother I thought I would be at 25. I am not the career girl I thought I would be. Nor the published author I envisioned. But that is okay. I am me. Thirty-something