The struggle, the mess, and the quiet that will come
I feel like my life is an endless loop of obligations.
It’s filled with exhaustion, stress, and never-ending to-do lists. It sorely lacks in relaxation and time to rest. I can never just be — I’m always wondering what can be checked off the list next.
From one thing to another. The noise is constant.
The morning starts with the mad dash after the ringing alarm. I get myself ready for work while simultaneously walking this dog or that one, getting food on a plate for Caleb, and catering to his demands. I rush out the door just in time, fumbling for my purse, searching for my keys, and shoving my feet into half-zipped boots. Sometimes, I shout up the stairs at Jerry: “Can you toss down my lunch? I left it in the fridge!”
The rest of the day carries on in much the same way, the noise never stopping.
By the time I get out of work, Jerry is already gone. I head to my parents’ house to pick up Caleb—if I’m not stopping at the gym first. We usually share dinner and some time together before we head home. Getting Caleb into his coat and shoes, getting him situated in the car, and pulling into the driveway, the dogs are barking, the house is buzzing with activity. The noise is overwhelming, yet somehow familiar. I get food in their dishes, take them out, yell at them to hurry.
Back inside, Caleb is usually into something. By 7:30, it’s bedtime. I chase him around the room while he laughs, and I wave a diaper around, trying to get him to settle down. It’s not as fun as he thinks, and I usually start shouting. The noise of our day has built to a peak.
Finally, I wrangle him, change the diaper, shove him into footie pajamas, brush his teeth, and watch him rush around looking for his pillow and a toy he must take to bed. I put him down, and it’s lights out. The noise finally fades as the house quiets.
By this point, I’ve been going for over 12 hours. I’d love to collapse onto the couch, but the growing pile of dishes wins, or the chaos of toys scattered across the living room takes priority, or any other number of things that need to be done around the house. I can’t stop yet. The noise of the day lingers, filling the space.
Sometimes I’ll get to enjoy some time in front of the TV, but many nights, it’s straight to bed after finishing chores. Getting everything done before sleep has become a routine, and sometimes, it's not pretty.
When I finally crawl into bed, I almost sigh in relief. I pull out my current read, scroll through my phone for a bit, and then read until my eyes can’t take it anymore. The silence settles in. Lights off, and I’ll do it all over again tomorrow.
I often sit and worry about what it will be like when I have two kids come September. I already feel stretched too thin, imagining myself coming home after a long day, juggling an infant carrier with Caleb running wild in the yard. The noise will only grow louder. It would be easier if Jerry and I worked the same schedule, but it’s still hard. Life right now is overwhelming — regardless of who works when. We do the best we can, but it’s a never-ending juggling act of work, parenting, housekeeping, errands, and the constant go-go-go.
Sometimes, I have to remind myself just to breathe, to find moments of silence in between.
And I remind myself that it won’t always be this hard. Someday, I’ll look back and miss all of this. Someday, when my kids are grown and gone, I will have peace and quiet again. The noise that fills every corner of this house will fade, replaced with silence. The house won’t be so cluttered. My living room won’t be filled with toys. I’ll have the cleanliness, organization, and silence that I crave so desperately now.
My house might even look like a civilized place again. My decorations won’t be hidden by Teletubbies on the bookshelves, and race tracks won’t block my window view. Someday, I’ll look around and see clean surfaces — no longer covered with diapers and toy trucks. Caleb won’t be shouting for “red juice! red juice!” and his Kindle won’t be playing Paw Patrol at full blast. I won’t be rushing around after work, trying to wrangle a stubborn child into a carseat. Someday, he’ll dress himself, and I’ll miss the footie pajamas. I’ll miss struggling to get his long, lanky legs into them, and I’ll miss his playful laughter when he runs away from me. The silence of his growing up will feel bittersweet.
I know I’ll miss that sweet little boy laughter as he grows up and stops finding everything so funny.
No, it won’t always be this hard, but it won’t always be this beautiful, either. Because that’s what it is — wrapped up in the noise of today and hidden behind the messes: a beautiful, chaotic life. The days of running, rushing, and loud demands will give way to quiet, to stillness, to a time when my home no longer vibrates with the sounds of little feet and toys strewn across the floor.
And when that silence comes, I know I’ll miss the noise. The laughter, the chatter, the chaos. But for now, I’ll hold on to the noise, because it’s what makes this life so beautifully chaotic.
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