I crawled into bed just before 10:00 last night, utterly exhausted, weariness replacing gravity as the pull on my body.
The week, it's been a long one. The post-cruise vertigo is getting better, but at an almost imperceptible rate. Corey is out of town. I'm solo-parenting four kids who are wrung out after a week of go-go-go vacation. Kieran's body clock is messed up, so he keeps getting up in the middle of the night declaring it morning. Natalie started swim team this week, adding two nights of after-school practices to schedule already packed with make-up homework. Everyone is stressed and short, emotions and bodies pulled taut by a week of Too Much.
So it's understandable that I would run for bed as soon as I got the kids all tucked in. But as I sank into my flannel sheets last night, I heard a little voice in my ear.
"It's not even ten o'clock. Shouldn't you at least pick up the toy explosion in the playroom?" it whispered, condescension coloring its tone.
I brushed it away. "So sick of toys," I muttered back.
The voice tried again. "What about your blog? Shouldn't you at least write for 30 minutes before you turn in?"
I stared blankly. Weakly. The pressure was starting to build.
"Or at least get up and watch Downton Abbey. You're already two episodes behind. Besides, if you catch up, you won't have to be on the alert for spoilers everywhere you look."
I fidgeted under my down comforter, trying to squirm away from my overachiever, productive, perfectionist temperament.
Why can't I just rest?
That was my answer to the voice.
I need to rest. I'm tired. Right now, I choose being over doing.
The voice slunk away, murmuring a little as it went.
I picked up my dog-eared copy of Bittersweet. Shauna Niequist has been my steady bedtime companion for weeks now, and her true, witty and always hopeful words redirect my heart. They remind me of what matters.
And it's not that there are toys on the playroom floor.
By the time I set the book down and turn off the light, I'm at rest.
