I’ve been so fortunate in the adult life of mine. One beautiful adventure after another.
But honestly, it’s not always a beautiful, exciting adventure. Don’t get me wrong; life itself is one helluva grand adventure, but sometimes the day to day stuff can become mundane.
I’m nomadic at heart. I thrive on constant change: one of the reasons I’m sure that I’m always painting something in my house, rearranging furniture, etc. I need change. Grandiose adventures.
I love being settles. Amazing husband. Check. Three beautiful babies. Check. Gorgeous house that is an ever ongoing project. Check. A day to day routine that we all find amenable and keeps us all comfortable. Check.
But I still love travel and adventure. I crave it deep in my soul, even though I know it’s not half as glamorous as I believe it to be in my head when I’m not in the throes of it. It doesn’t make me enjoy it any less though, knowing it won’t be quite as wonderful as I build it up to be. I know it’s a lot of work. Even before there were tiny humans to consider in travelling, it was still exhausting and required lots of prep.
And yet, that’s still what keeps me ticking some days. The knowledge of going somewhere at some point. The thrill of new.
But even during the seasons of life when we’ve been gone more than we’ve been home, the thrill of being gone would not exist if we didn’t have those moments of home.
The trust is, the every day ordinary of home is exquisitely beautiful and enjoyable, too. I sometimes take it for granted though.
Today I watched my 4 year old practice learning how to dive. He needs work still; but I got to watch him leave his comfort zone and truly be challenged, leaving his apprehensiveness at the door so that he could battle his fears of the deep end.
Today my 6 year old put her leadership abilities to good use, passing out snacks and crafts at story time, and helping smaller kids with their crafts after completing her own masterpiece.
Today I watched my 5 month old squeal in absolute delight as he tried green beans for the first time. Those big belly laughs were music to my ears.
Today I read to my 4 year old for over half an hour, just him and me, while a friend held and loved on my baby so I could get that time in with him. He’s not going to be a 4 year old much longer.
Today I nursed my ever-curious (read: way too nosey to eat around other people) 5 month old and held him on my chest for nearly two hours while his big siblings played quietly, feeling his rhythmic breathing in my arms like the melodious beat it is.
Today I watched my 6 year old proudly master the rules of silent e.
Today I watched my 4 year old play the ukulele for his tiny brother; a beautiful moment of brotherly love.
All these little things, little moments, are more beautiful than any grand adventure we have ever or could ever have.
It’s taken me 6 years of motherhood to slow down. 6 years to accept and embrace that life isn’t always an adventure, and really, it shouldn’t be.
It should be about these little moments. That look joy when he tries to dive for the first time. The baby milk-drunk sighs from the infant passed out on my chest. The opportunity to witness her in the role of helper. Watching my children bond and love one another is the most unprompted, organic of moments.
It doesn’t mean I’m not looking my next escape from reality; that I’ll enjoy our next adventure any less. I don’t think the wanderlust inside of me, the spirited beast of “more,” can ever ben wholly abandoned; but here is a time and place for it, and for now, it must be hushed so I don’t miss out on the here and the now.