A deliciously chubby six-month-old is swatting a plush green bird at my feet. His three-year-old brother is sleepily sprawled on the couch, watching Curious George. It’s a rare moment of still in our tireless household. The sun set hours ago, so all the lights are switched on, casting a hazy glow over the dishes piled in the sink; their crusted streaks the evidence of a full day.
This is my life now. A life of soft snuggles and toddler temper tantrums. A life where my boots are always muddy and I wear stretch fabric 90 percent of the time. Where diaper changes and food clean-up works its way into every spare second. Where I melt over tiny toes and tight little jammies with airplanes on them.
It is tears over yet another 4 am wake up. It is grins over sloppy kisses. It is worry lines and fervent prayers.
It is a life that is equal parts brutal and beautiful.
There have been a few moments in my life where I’ve felt important. Where in the fight for justice and mercy and freedom, I’ve seen myself as someone helping move the needle ever so slightly forward. I’ve worked with world-changing organizations, had my heart stirred with a big hairy dream, and taken the terrifying steps towards putting a “yes” into action. Those moments have made me feel like I have a tiny little place in this world, carved out just for me.
Those experiences would have been perfect to write about this month, when our theme is “Dangerous Women”. Women who are full of fire, who want to influence change. Women who are standing and shouting.
There have been times where I’ve felt like I could be one of those women.
But I don’t right now.