On Saturday mornings I make tiny pancakes.
It takes for-absolutely-ever, and my tiny chef dictates exactly how many she will want on her plate for each serving. They must be hot, and it does no good to make them ahead in anticipation of her second, third, fourth serving because if they are not fresh from the pan, she will not have them.
This is patience.
This is mindfulness.
I drink my coffee in between. I help her to stand up to the kitchen chair next to the counter so she can direct. I decide to make my own breakfast right there instead of forgetting. I have eggs with leftover spaghetti sauce in a tortilla and it is glorious. I do not beat myself up over eating something weird. If my three year old can decide her own breakfast, her own happiness, then so can I.
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Let me tell you a story.
A woman I know, her lifelong partner has a second family. Fifteen years worth of a second family. Fifteen years of secrets and lies. Fifteen fucking years, what is this? And she does nothing while he spends half his time with them during the month. We can all say this won't happen to us but it can.
There is no convincing her of what she is capable of. She will see it or she won't.
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I will tell you another.
A woman I know, her lifelong partner walks out of the house one day. Texts her after 17 years together that he doesn't love her and won't be coming back. He disappears. He lives with another woman. More secrets. More lies. I want to start a project with her, but she hesitates,
I have nothing. I have only a silly hobby.
I don't need her to see yet. I don't need to convince this woman of her value; I wait. I believe.
I see it.
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Another.
I wanted to start a business with a friend, but this time it is me who hesitates. I don't believe I can do what is required for this business; I don't have the experience. No one will listen to me. And so I procrastinate until she is frustrated and we let the domain lapse.
There are things that happened last year that I cannot put into words yet, but they are coming.
Words are all that I have. I am piecing the story together; I am finding words for what is only dark space now, words for the sweat in the middle of the night, words for the hole in my wall, words for the bruises on my heart.
You wait. And in this period of waiting together I will tell all our stories through mine.
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I say
Get up.
Get off the floor.
You get back up when you are ready, not when you want to, and your heart knows the difference. <Tweet This>
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I cook. The children cook.
On Saturday, I cleared out space in my kitchen for my children to play. I took out a shelf, threw away everything it contained and put their play stove in its place. They promptly made me a cake omelet for breakfast and we sat together at that little blue table while I wrote out my first meal plan in months, possibly years.
I won't be eating cake omelets, but I could see the joy they got in making something for me. I wonder, why can't we enjoy taking care of ourselves? In all this time we spend looking for our person, we can't see that we are our own person.
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I am ready and so I get up no matter how my heart feels.