My kitchen floor is sticky…again.
To be honest, I’m not sure with what this time. Milk? Apple juice? Do I want to know? It doesn’t matter. “You know,” I say to my husband with a heaving, dramatic sigh, “as soon as I mop this up it’s just going back to a mess in a matter of minutes.” He nods, knowingly, and shrugs with a resigned half-smile.
And as always, whenever I grouse about the little grievances and annoyances that come along with an 8 year-old and a 5-year-old, there’s a little voice in my head that follows. Even when I’m at my yelling beast-mode worst, and I’m at my wits’ end…when the storm passes, and I’m left with the quiet of my thoughts, there’s that voice.
“You’re lucky,” it softly whispers.
Over 10 years ago that voice didn’t exist. It didn’t need to.