In an incredibly dismal week, I manage to grasp onto the wisps and bobbles of my girls wishes to provide some cheer.
Kaya, after doing some special or fun activity, often tells me “Mom, in my brain I dreamed of that, just that what we did, and then we did it, and I didn’t even tell anybody, it was just in my brain, and then we did it, and my dream came true!”
Whether by internal vision boarding or a case of knowing what she wanted only after doing it, I can only think that my daughter is surely brilliant. Wise beyond her years. Or because of them.
Wishing my own dream into existence, I long for everyday being the me I know, instead of the me on a hormonal rollercoaster of emotional instability. Where one week of every month does not make me a slave to bitchiness, sadness, sleepiness or bitterness. This rollercoaster seems so much higher, faster and twistier since having kids, but I wonder if it isn’t just that with them, I can no longer just hide. I still have to be mom. I still have to make dinner instead of sinking into a bag of ripple chips, chocolate milk and a bad made-for-tv movie.
I still have to act sane, if not entirely feel it.
Believing that the magic of my own breath and power of wishes will have those bubbles flowing again.