As a working AND at-home mom of two kids under 5, I always feel like I’m rushing around.
Rushing to preschool. Rushing to playdate. Rushing to cram in an errand or three between the two.
Rushing to run farther, faster, and sooner than any of my friends want to race.
Rushing to get my work done while the baby sleeps.
Rushing to finish the laundry before the kids lose interest in their waterplay in the sink nearby.
Rushing to get them ready for bed and then snuggled in for the long cuddle at bedtime.
Rushing again to squeeze in another hour or two of work in the wee hours between putting the preschooler down and when the baby gets up.
Rushing. Always rushing.
Trying to enjoy it and savor it and love the time with my children, my most precious boys, but still haunted by the to do list and rushing to get it all done.
To be the perfect mom. The pretty good wife. The good enough scholar. The hospitable keeper of the home.
Never done. Never enough. Never quite good enough.
But today I got a wake up call. The world lost a good person today. I knew her only as Barb from Philly, the one who persevered long enough to finally get Komen to recognize IBC. She was amazing.
She was the longest survivor I’d ever heard of, save one.
She was diagnosed seven years ago.
And now she’s gone.
Most women with IBC recur within the first two years after treatment. I’ve made it six months so far.
I wonder if I really want to spend my last few years always