Don't worry

I sent my submission to CHF last night, so we'll see how it goes. I am excited to have done it and strangely at peace. I don't feel the nervousness which I thought I would. I'm really okay with whatever happens - maybe I'm not "desperate" enough, or I don't want it badly enough. What I do know is that I am learning to let go of things that I can't control. I frankly don't have the time or energy to put into it.

I found a quote the other day on Ali Edwards' blog that seems to say what I'm can't.
Dawna Markova : I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. I choose to risk my significance; to live so that which comes to me as seed goes to the next as blossom and that which comes to me as blossom, goes on as fruit.

Why waste a day worrying when there is so much that can be done to improve it? We have rules, and I reiterate the rules. I know that they are going to test the rules. It is the nature of curious children to test the rules. I try not to worry about messes that the kids will make either, because I know that the messes are going to happen. Sometimes BIG ones. Sometimes sticky ones. Often while in the process of breaking rules. There is almost no limit to the amount of imagination a child can transpose into mess form. Clean, happens - its true - but you can always be quite sure that mess is not far behind. Why worry?

I try to keep them safe. It's hard to improve on whole, healthy, intact bodies. I teach them not to fight, because angry voices destroy the peace we want in our home. Often enough, however, even these basic functions of motherhood find themselves thwarted. Sometimes, there is blood. Sometimes we need a stitch or two. Sometimes all you can hear is angry voices. This is the reason that some people have nannies. I take time when I need it, to talk to friends or relax. I do have to suffer through the craziness, but I'm also the one that gets all the good stuff. I watch it all happen, all day long, every day. No one can tell me that missing out on Q's tirades would be worth it. When I hear from those same little lips, a very sweet little voice saying, "I love you so much, Mommy. You're the best!" I know simultaneously what that voice is capable of and it melts me into a lump. You have to taste the bitter to know the sweet. You have to know the mess to appreciate the clean. You have to hear a lot of noise to truly savor a quiet moment.