Not wanting to wish my days away seems to be a recurring theme around here, but it is something I find myself doing quite a bit.
It can be a short term affliction like the one that happens at around this time each year when I begin lusting after long summer days and wishing winter would end tomorrow. But sometimes it is a more insidious disease, like the idea that I’ll be happier when…
I’ll be happier when …
…when the renovations are done.
…when Noah stays in his bed all night.
…when the girls stop fighting.
…when Morgan can put on his own seat belt.
And there I am… wishing my days away again.
But not only am I wishing my days away, I am wishing my children’s days away.
My babies, who I am in no hurry to see grow up, yet here I, am assuming that when this child is through that stage my life will be miraculously better, I will be happy…er.
Except that I am already happy, I just keep forgetting that because I am busy wishing my days away.
I will be happier when I realise I already am.