I've got a little Mayberry in ME...

I miss the Mayberry days of my childhood. The days when I would wake up at 7:00, stretch my arms clear to the ceiling as I sat up on the top bed of the bunk I shared with my younger sister. Stepping down from the ladder to the carpet below,  the smell of pancakes and homemade maple syrup wafting through the summer air would draw me to the source. I loved opening the 1950’s style refrigerator, pouring an ice cold glass of milk and sit at the breakfast table. The days when I wouldn’t think twice about wearing spandex shorts and a t-shirt, and ride my bike from sun up until sun down. When the only problem I considered was… What on Earth am I going to do today? I long for those days when I stepped out onto my porch with a can of my dad's Coca-Cola and I knew that the world was there for me to mold into whatever it was that I wanted.  The possibilities seemed endless. I had time to read a chapter book cover to cover as I swung on the porch swing in the back yard sipping on an ice cold Coke or a glass of Kool-Aid we were bound to have on hand at any given time.  The days were sometimes spent organizing our candy sale with profits going toward our Lagoon fund.  I long for the nights when the sound of children's sneakers slapped against the pavement as quietly as we could manage in an effort to not be found by the person titled ‘it’. The terror we felt when we passed the neighborhood “grump” sitting outside to let us know it was not ok to hide in his perfectly manicured lawn (no matter how many amazing hiding spots were littered throughout his maze of bushes). I enjoyed myself and worried less. I made lists (yes, I’m one of those types) of my favorite things to do and what I wanted to be when I grew up. I made lists of the things I wanted to accomplish, some were realistic and some were… well let’s just say I’m probably not going to marry Joey McIntyre of New Kids on the Block (and I’ve finally stopped crying about this.)

It’s not healthy to divulge into something so completely that you simply forget the extra’s we have available in life. Don’t consume yourself with one thing so much so that you lose focus on what makes you happy. It’s easy to fall into the daily grind of a career, to arrive home from work take a deep breath finally acknowledging your fatigue and assuming you need more sleep, go to bed early and wake up feeling just as, if not more, exhausted than the day before. Take a look further into what’s causing the feeling of not being completely happy and figure out what it is making you feel so tired and not-yourself.  Do something that is fun for you.  I recently asked a friend what she liked to do for fun. 30 seconds pass with her “umm-ing” and “hmm-ing, before she looked back at me with a small giggle escaping and said “I forgot.” Her answer was the same as mine before I stopped and contemplated on just where it was that I had disappeared to.  We both recognized that feeling of losing ourselves in our children, work, children, bills, and cleaning up after our children. It was this unknown answer that woke something up in me. I made a list of some of the things that made me me. I am Ayden and Caler’s Momma, I’m a bill-payer, a housekeeper, sometimes a laundry-doer,& an employee. But I’m also Kristal. At times it’s hard to remember that I love to write, sketch, run, jump on bubble wrap, read, I get embarrassed easily and blush so often I wonder if it’s just my natural skin color, I love thunder storms, I have to sleep with one foot uncovered, my car is a mess and although I may vow to clean it out one day…. I probably won’t, I bake cakes when I’m stressed (Mr. Elliot, our next door neighbor, is often the recipient of such cakes), I blow dry my hair upside down, I giggle, I love chick flicks, and Dr Reid from Criminal Minds makes my heart flutter…. There are so many quirks that make me Kristal and not just a mom but a momma.

I know that the world is there for me to mold it into whatever it is that I want.  All I need to do is take a step back now and then and do something to remember that I’m still here and not buried under the mountain of laundry that, I’m sad to say, has returned .