I'm coming to terms with this.
This transition from working full-time to part-time to not-really-any-time at all. This transition from the exhilarating, production-filled days to
the unsexy days.
You see, I was the girl who aspired to be the next Condoleeza Rice. Who waltzed through Banana Republic, dressing herself in the sharp grey and tan power suits, readying herself for the days when her clothes would communicate power and importance.
(I am that vain...)
I was the girl whose husband was shocked to find, upon completion of my timeline, The Next 20 Years of Our Lives, I had totally forgotten to factor in kids.
Grad school for me? Check.
Grad school for hubby? Check.
Children before 40?
So, here I am on the other side of college-girl fantasies. I'm home, full-time, with my lovely two-year-old.
I sort of roll through my days, through my weeks, trying to be as intentional as possible with this time God's granted me. And it's beautiful and fulfilling and sometimes slow, but altogether good.
It's days like yesterday when I'm forced to come to terms with just
It's when Carter's washing his hands for lunch and I glance in the bathroom and I literally flinch at seeing my un-make-uped reflection. It's when I realize, 15 minutes before my student comes over, that I haven't yet showered that day. It's when I look forward to dinner out because I'll have my first reason that day to get out of a sports-bra.
We've come a long way from the April-with-the-JD-after-her-name.
I'm stumbling upon a different kind of beauty right now--one of quietness and contentedness. One that's slowly becoming okay with not measuring the day's worth by an Outlook task list. A beauty that's desperately trying to inhale the energy of each moment, fully knowing that this season will soon pass.
I'm thankful for these days.
Whether or not mascara makes the cut.