Dear Friends, Forgive Me

Yet another evening finds me crawling in bed at 9:30 pm with barely enough energy to scroll through Facebook and like your posts about life, let alone actually text or call you with any consistency. I've entered a point in time where adulthood feels like I'm running a marathon at a full sprint only to discover I'm falling farther behind each day. I've got laundry to the ceiling, baby bottles constantly filling the sink, grading piling up in my digital classrooms far enough to require the scroll button, and inches of dust threatening anyone's allergy reflex the second they walk through my door. My dog hasn't been walked in weeks and I don't even remember what exercise means outside of lifting my caffeinated beverage to my mouth while working through my lunch after getting two hours of sleep the night before. The only reason I'm able to compose this blog post is because I'm dashing it off in two minutes while waiting for the baby to fall asleep as I rock her (and I've spent weeks thinking of how I should write a post since I haven't in forever.) I'm constantly aware of how inadequate I've become at every aspect of my life that matters to me.

So, please, dear friend, forgive me, because I know I'm not holding up my end of the relationship. I'm also not cutting it as a writer, teacher, wife, or mother. I'm not paying attention to details and losing my temper and forgetting how to be myself every single day. I think of you so many times and never seem to have the few seconds I need to reach out during those minutes, only to see your posts or comments or Snaps and realize two days later I didn't respond anywhere other than inside my own head. Know I don't mean to be antisocial or isolate myself but that I have to use every spare second at work to catch up on work because home is a war zone of workload all its own. Know that I want to see a movie and drink wine with you but I also want to snuggle my last baby, the one I was blessed enough to have after a miscarriage, and I want to read with my six-year-old because I cherish watching her grow her own mind, so I have to choose. Know I won't always feel as conflicted or as distracted, and that the thought of taking a moment for myself won't always be one that simply increases my stress instead of relieving it.

Forgive me, dear friend, for putting other priorities ahead of you, when you should be one too. And love me enough to keep asking me to dinner despite me saying I can't because Sunday is the only day I have to clean. Have faith that someday, I'll remember what it's like to laugh with you, because Lord knows I need it, and that even when we haven't talked in ages, it's the hope we soon will getting me through.