Instagrammable

I wish I would've taken a picture of the state of my house this morning, for you, dear reader.

I'll paint you a picture. 

Dishes overflowing in the sink. Clean dishes waiting to be put away.

Peanut butter on the counter because V needed to make her own peanut butter toast.

A broom leaning against the table because I had every intention of sweeping last night.

Leaves in the kitchen from little dirty shoes.

Underwear and socks from all three kids on the living room floor.

Toothpaste in, on and around the bathroom sink. Stickers on the bathtub.

Jammies in the hallway.

Cat hair permanently embedded into the sofa cover. 

Peanut butter toast plates and empty glasses on the coffee table.

A half empty coffee cup near the record player.

School papers on every chair, table, couch. 

This is my life. 

I work two jobs.

I play music when I can. 

By the time I get home in the evening, I am tired.

No magic pill or shake or workout program will fix this tired.

Because guys, it's not just my body, it's my soul that is exhausted.

I have kept a journal, I have done all of the yoga, I have self cared until I feel selfish. 

But this season of my life is just plain and simple, single mother exhaustion. 

No one else picks up any of the slack in my house.

Because it's just me. 

Financially, emotionally, and physically, it is just me. 

And I'm not even complaining, I swear. 

But if you come to my house, please don't expect it to be instagrammable. 

Awkwardly Yours, 

Meg