Over the years many people have asked me if my life living in the city is hard. I have never quite understood the question. What exactly is hard? One definition:
difficult to do or accomplish; fatiguing; troublesome: a hard task.
So, no...it's not hard. I wake up each day and I take a deep breath---Ready, Set, Go. And it is kind of like a little race. I don't sit down much. I go go go and do do do. I have found my flow--my groove. One might find it interesting actually. I do a large percentage of my consuming on the internet. I order groceries, bulk items, specialty items, patterns, yarn (sometimes), clothes, shoes, toilet paper, diapers the list goes on and on and on....all online. Before I had a doorman a delivery was a wild affair--me running down the UPS truck so that I could get my box--not worth it!
Now I get a box almost every single day. I take full advantage of the Amazon Prime account. We're out of pencils? Amazon Prime. Catching Fire is being released on your birthday? Pre-order! Amazon Prime!. Shoot! Party favors--Amazon Prime! Mattress! Ski Goggles! Cheez-its! Amazon Prime!
My Point. Life here isn't that hard. As I age, I enjoy the required walking and the bundling up (well, this winter is a different story--OVER. IT.) and the adventure that is getting from one place to another. I am a natural born survivor (learned that in therapy) and living here is sometimes a game of survival. A brightly dressed woman with an awesome knit hat today was writing repeatedly in her little notebook and yelling out that "THIS WASN'T OVER!" Crazy town is the normal here and so whatever is hard, gets wiped away by the fun.
I'll tell you what is hard.
Raising these children of mine is starting to get hard. Or, maybe I am just in a hard spot. Lolly from age 18 months-4 was hard. I was also dealing with depression and side effects of medication and very difficult life stuff, so all of it together was hard, it wasn't just her. Each child has had a "hard" stage. Pickle not taking a binky, not sleeping on the go, trying to wean her--she has had little phases that have been hard, but in general I would not call her a hard baby.
It's not the child herself. It's not me. It's complicated. I was watching my brother and sis-in-law on one of their recent vlogs (5:38) about their impending parenthood. Jenn was saying how it wasn't really fair that she got to stay home all day and play with the baby while he went to work. They were laughing and smiling and feeling sorry for the other one and looking at each other with this joy that is unique to that first baby. They are thinking about onesies and poopy diapers and how are they going to afford it and where will they live. Of course they should be thinking of that.
How can they possibly see into the future and know that in 12 years their baby will be talking back and pulling away and begging for more and more independence. How could they possibly see the concern for how many poopy diapers did the baby have today gradually change into Is he reading at grade level to Can she hear me? Is she listening?
Have I done all I can?
It has snuck up on me. "Ten Minutes Ago..." just popped in my head. It's a pile up of years some long some short and suddenly it adds up to 12. Is MY Mom sitting at her computer counting through her fingers 3 and a half times awestruck by the same feeling. 35 years might as well have been 35 minutes.
I never really thought about whether or not they were ready--dwelling on that seemed like a waste of emotion and energy--rip the band aid off quickly let's get on with it.
Now she's doing it back to me. She's just cutting those ties right and left with no regard to my feelings. Hey now! I wasn't ready for that one. Come back here! come back here. come. back. here.
And as I am standing there looking after her, that ponytail flicking behind her. I take a breath and realize, this is difficult to do. This is fatiguing... and troublesome...THIS is hard.