I am a responsible adult. If I’m not the world around me falls apart and it isn’t pretty. Food sits out and spoils. The boys get into fights that end with someone injured. Dust collects. Laundry piles up in heaps on our floor. My husband feels overwhelmed. Very little is moved along.
But. Every once and awhile, I decide to break a self imposed rule.
The other night my anxiety got to me and I laid in bed wide awake. Instead of suffering I decided to get up. I slipped out of the sheets, doing my best not to disturb my husband’s sleep (breaking rules is only possible if one of the two responsible adults is able to function) and I crawled onto the couch in the family room with my phone, a book, and a journal.
Decision made. I was going to steal the night time hours for me. I knew the next day we’d have four hours in the car for our return trip home so I could nap, while the children were trapped, and I wouldn’t have to worry all hell might break loose.
I wrote in my journal, scrolled through my phone, flipped open my book, and finally settled into a rare non-stop session of Netflix.
I never get non-stop sessions in Netflix.
My eyes dried up, I sped the shows along, and my body twitched from exhaustion. Eventually, I dropped my journal, my book, and my phone on the bedside table and snuck back under the covers.
The next day I was tired. The bags beneath my eyes aged me and my zombie walk in the morning startled the boys.
But I was unexpectedly relaxed, happy.
Sometimes breaking rules, bending the way we always do things for survival and sanity, adds a rare bit of whimsy.
Turns out, that is essential too.
Embracing Next 