I’ve been thinking about enjoyment lately. When do we actually enjoy our time? Most of the time I’m tired, stressed out, nervous, and I’d like to be somewhere else. Even if I love my family and my life is the result of my own choices which I would do again if I had the chance. I spent a few days with my family, my parents and my sisters. It hadn’t happened since maybe ten years ago, and it was great to be together. But. But it was a long journey to get there. But L had to come back home for work, and I was on my own in a hotel with the kids at night and early morning, and my parents help a little but not much really. Most of the time I was actively trying to suppress a feeling of bitterness, trying not to judge them for what they did or didn’t do. Asking myself why I couldn’t just enjoy the time there with my family, with all their quirks. I do love them, and I’m happy I didn’t cancel the journey because it was complicated. I’m not that kind of person. But it is complicated.
This “holiday” is only a recent example, there are many other days when I’m not at peace. Then there are minutes of happiness, when I talk with Pallino before bedtime, when LittleOne wakes up from his nap and hugs me tenderly and kisses me clumsily. When I manage to have a conversation with L in the evening and we disagree but then each brings something to the table and eventually we reach a better solution together. When I read a book and I like it. When I play my lovely new keyboard and the music makes sense (I can only play simple pieces, but it’s relaxing). When I sing in my little choir with the elderly ladies.
So why my days are almost always “meh”?