I’m done filling up my schedule. I want to fill up my life.

I went away with my husband this past weekend.

It was just the two of us.

No kids.

It was the first time in ten years that we’ve spent two consecutive nights alone.

And together.

And I realized something while we were gone.

My life has become completely insane.

I know we have no money.

And I know we have seven children.

So things might be a little crazier for us than they are for the average family right now.

But so many things became clear to me in a very short period of time when I was able to get away from the madness.

And it is total madness.

I’ve been thinking about my purpose here on the planet a lot lately.

Maybe I’m having some sort of mid-life crisis.

I mean, it is my birthday tomorrow.

And forty-five is kind of a milestone.

But I think this introspection is due just as much to the fact that I have been operating at such a ridiculous speed for so long that I kind of just accepted it.

It became normal for me.

And it wasn’t until I had two entire days away from everything that I realized how unmanageable my life has become.

I’ve always worked hard.

As long as I can remember, I’ve had multiple jobs.

But back when I was single, even with more than one job, I knew how to relax.

I knew how to take time to just be.

Then I got married.

And about a month later I was pregnant.

After marriage, and with each kid, more and more things were added to the schedule.

There was still some free time.

Some down time.

But then, when the financial problems hit, I began feeling the need to devote every single spare second to trying to make money.

Literally every second.

The down time gradually disappeared.

And here I am.

I’ve stopped taking time to rest or to enjoy, well,

anything.

Sure, I go on a Mom’s Night Out about once a month.

But that’s not really what I’m talking about.

I have sucked all the fun out of my days.

I do almost nothing with my kids anymore.

I have become very good at setting them up with things to do or other people to take care of them so that I can get as much work done as possible.

I didn’t realize how good I had become at outsourcing them until the other day when I was sitting on the rug playing with Number 6 and 7.

We were building stuff with blocks and Legos.

And Number 3 walked into the house after getting off the bus, looked at me, and said, “Why are you sitting on the floor with them? Why are you… playing with them?”

Ouch.

It was such an unusual sight he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Then, just last night, Number 3 said to me,

“Mom? How come I never see you eat?”

Yikes.

I thought about it.

He was right.

At this point, meals are just another thing to check off the list.

I am throwing food onto the counter for the kids to eat and immediately telling them to hurry up.

Because I feel the urgency to move onto the next thing on the list.

I’m not modeling healthy behaviors for the kids or even encouraging them to have them.

We’ve stopped eating as a family.

Yes, I stand in the kitchen while they eat.

But honestly, it’s just to make sure they don’t beat the crap out of each other and throw shit all over the floor.

It’s not so that we can enjoy a meal as a family.

It’s not so that I can encourage them to mindfully enjoy food.

It’s not so that I show them that it’s important to slow down.

To connect.

To be intentional.

And that’s what, up until this past weekend, my days had become.

I had convinced myself that I am not allowed to rest or relax or enjoy anything at all until I am financially sound.

So on Saturday and Sunday, when I slept past 6 a.m. for the first time in over a year, and I ate five meals and was seated for all of them, and I actually took the time to taste and savor my food, it was a serious slap in the face.

A wake up call.

I am not enjoying my life.

I am filling it up with more and more things to do.

Feeling the need to book every second of every day with stuff.

And also waking up and having my first thought be, “I can’t wait until I can go to bed.”

I don’t think my purpose in life is to see how much stuff I can cram into a day.

To see just how much I can handle.

Or to just make it through another day.

I think my purpose in life is to be happy.

My days are definitely full.

But I’m feeling kind of empty.

It’s all work.

No rest.

No fun.

No living with intention.

Just moving from task to task on autopilot.

That’s no way to live.

So I’ve started making some changes.

At Number 3’s Open House on Monday, I did not write my name on the Room Mom Volunteer sheet.

I don’t need to add that to the list.

Number 5 is now old enough to play soccer. She could have started next weekend.

Numbers 1 through 4 all played soccer when they were five.

The Susie of last week would have told herself that Number 5 had to play.

It would only be fair.

If the other kids did it, then she needed that chance too.

Well, the circumstances are different now.

And she doesn’t need to play soccer.

She’s got plenty of time.

I’m not depriving her.

She’s only five, for crying out loud.

Today I found myself gravitating toward those cram-some-more-in-to-my-day tendencies.

Things were getting crazier and crazier.

I was getting bitchier and bitchier.

So I paused.

I thought about what my intention was.

My intention was not to add another thing to the to do list.

To stuff one more thing into the closet and slam the door shut before everything came tumbling out.

My intention was not to resent or ignore my kids.

My intention was to be healthy and happy and present.

My intention was to enjoy these moments when my kids are little, because they are fleeting.

And my intention was to model healthy behavior for my kids.

So when things got crazy, and I found myself becoming increasingly short tempered, I made an executive decision.

Instead of taking Number 6 to preschool this afternoon, I decided to keep him home.

I took Number 7 and him for a run, and then when I was done, instead of rushing home to squeeze one more thing in, we took a walk.

Here:

It was so beautiful and quiet.

We were the only ones there.

We took our time.

Number 6 picked about a hundred flowers for me.

I was still fighting some of those old feelings, second guessing my decision to ignore the things I wasn’t checking off the list.

But after about the fifth bouquet, Number 6 looked up at me and said,

“Mommy, thank you for taking us here and letting us walk.

I love you soooo much.”

Any doubts I had were gone.

And so, for my forty-fifth birthday, I am not giving myself a manicure, or a pedicure, or a day free of all the usual mom responsibilities.

Instead, I am giving myself the gift of living intentionally.

It won’t cost me a thing.

And unlike a coat of nail polish on my fingers or toes, this is a gift that will last a lifetime.

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