Somebody

There are days where I fight against the life I’ve chosen.

It’s hard to be a perpetual servant- to a toddler, to a house, to a husband.

My marriage is a partnership- we share everything.

I am blessed.

It’s hard, though, for him to be the only one bringing home the money.

His job is paid in dollars, one that are very precious right now as bills inflate, plans change, and workload declines.

My work is paid in somewhat less tangible but  fulfilling compensation.

Snuggles, kisses, smiles, freshness and fullness.

But some days, it is hard to be a nanny.

A housekeeper.

A servant.

Home all day with laundry, dishes waiting for me.

Fadra’s Sunday post ‘I used to be somebody’ hit right where that bitter feeling sits with me.

I used to sit at a desk, writing long hours, making many phone calls.

Writing news that informed, empowered.

Even if it was an article about a fundraising tea, I was impacting the world.

I was a Somebody. I walked in the world, interacted with it, experienced it.

My head was high, my load light, my hands swung free with my possessions in pockets. Not with a stuffed diaper bag and a small hand in my own, claiming all of my attention and energy.

I hear that voice some dark days, where I am passed over, alone, and a pile of dishes and a crying child only command my attention.

The part of my head that says I used to be Somebody.

It tells me I no longer influence the world around me, that I am not a part of that world, that my words come out softly to people half-attentive.

I remind myself, as I stand in my kitchen, a crying child and a dishwasher demanding my attention. Dinner on the stove, something sticky under my foot, that phone call still needing to be made.

I am still Somebody.

My world has narrowed, encapsulated into a house and the items inside.

Not just a table, a crib, a mop… but health, love, comfort and support.

To my family, I am not just Somebody, but Everything.

And it can be hard.

It is hard.

Being a Somebody.