I tend to wallow a bit in my reality: this is not the life I signed up for. By this time in my life, I should have a kid in middle school. I should be playing chauffeur to all my kids. I should be clamoring for alone time with my husband. I should be comparing the decor of my home to that of my sisters and friends.
Instead, every morning I wake up at 5:45–and many mornings hit snooze–and teach for 9 hours and come home to an empty apartment, often to work some more.
Yes, I tend to wallow in the perceived emptiness of my life, and at times that wallowing gives way to despair and I become over-dramatic about the fact that I have to teach for 9 hours a day and cook my meals and do the dishes and take out the trash and scrape my windshield every morning. Last week at piano lessons, my 9 year-old niece expressed her deepest sympathies that I have no help at home.
And some days in my empty apartment, I stumble on a blog, in which I read about pregnancy complications and a laid-off husband and I look around at my life–my charmed, charmed life–and feel foolish for the wallowing.
My friends, my students, my skills, my job, my full cupboards, my car, my family, my health.
I’m actually quite unfairly blessed.
A week before Thanksgiving, that’s a nice reminder.