I think I've said this before

... Like every day. I am constantly complaining about how many things I want to accomplish and how  I always seem to run out of time. I have probably about 50 lucid minutes left to me before my mind turns to mush and I fall asleep. Really I should already be asleep. But I want to write. I have a book from the library (actually 3) that is begging to be read. I have a knitting project on the needles, calling to my fingers to work on, and my next project (ice skating boot covers) to look up. I haven't worked on my book all week. There is (still) laundry at the end of my bed that needs folding.

But it's quiet in the house right now. Daddy has gone down to his 'man cave' to work on his current project - a desk for the older boy. The boys are all in bed, and if they are awake I can't hear them from my room. It's likely they are already asleep. It's been a busy week, with the first day of school on Wednesday I'm sure they are worn out. I take these quiet moments when I can find them. In a house with four boys between the ages of eleven and three, times of quiet are... well... priceless.

There's a gentle wind soughing at my bedroom window. The old dog is snoring beside the bed, and my favorite cat is curled up across my calves. I can feel all the tension and anxiety of the day lifting, almost like it's rising off my body like heat waves off a sun-baked pavement. I can't go to sleep now. I have to cherish this moment.

I postponed that 8 mile run I was talking about yesterday. I had to put in 10 hours at the office, plus a stop at the grocery store on the way home, and my day is all gone. Tomorrow I will run. Sunday I will run 14 miles. I am eager for that post-long-run euphoria, that weary-yet-satisfied to the core feeling of having done something undeniably good. My runs are 'me time'. Time to unravel all the knots tied around my heart: from being a mom of four boys with whom I don't spend enough time, from being a nurse who no longer stands at the bedside, from being an imperfect and often ungrateful daughter, from being me - every day struggling to keep moving, keep fighting, keep busy, find my happy place. It's hard to get out of bed some days. I'm fighting an endless exhaustion for which I have no physical reason. I try not to feel sorry for myself. It doesn't help - just makes me feel even more tired. My life is good. I've also begun to notice this slightly destructive pattern that when I'm feeling most tired and 'blue', I tend to add on another activity; horseback riding, ice skating, another race for  which to train - and it's a vicious cycle because then of course I feel worse when I can't accomplish all the goals I put in front of myself. Or should I call them obstacles?

Since I fell asleep once already with my fingers on the keyboard, I will sign off now. Tomorrow is another day, with another twenty million things to do...