Good Day, Y'all

Have you ever asked yourself what constitutes a "good day"?  Like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, I've always just rather assumed "I know it when I see it."  Today tested that theory and found it lacking.

It was a pretty run-of-the-mill kind of day.  The kids were in and out of "time-out" all day for everything from knocking each other down to hitting Mommy to fighting over who gets to hold the PawSox tickets from Sunday's game. 

After a ridiculous amount of fussing, I finally got the kids dressed and outside for our daily fence-fixing expedition.  (This morning I had to cut the new fence I installed last week at the back end of the property to create a gateway so we can dispose of all the tree-trash we created taking down 4 giant white pines dying near our house.) 


By the time the daily fatigue meltdowns came, it was lunchtime.  We read "The Sword in the Stone," and the kids took insanely long naps.  Both of them.  Fabulous!

My neighbor came over for tea.  I called my sister.  I did some dishes and laundry. 

The kids woke up.  We watched a Signing Time episode.  I made supper.  We did baths.  I pulled a tick off Chinchita.  (If I'm not pulling at least one tick off one of us each day, we just have not lived!) 

It was 6:30pm.  The kids were clean.  The bedroom was clean.  I was vacuuming their room when I thought, "This was a good day." 

Then I stopped.  Why? 

Nothing really special happened.  I can't honestly say the kids were "easy."  At that moment, however, the kids were playing wildly and happily in the living room.  ("We're late for Mass!" they yell, jumping into my empty laundry basket.  This is my proof that Grammy takes them to church during Pajama Party Sleepovers . . . to the kids our church is "our church"; hers is "going to mass"!  Very cute!) 

My day had been productive.  My new gate required no new purchases, just some scavenging from other unnecessary areas of fence.  My neighbor lent me his trailer, so a pile of brush was ready to head to the back pasture through said gate.  I am almost ready for goats.  I even had time to do some extra clean-up before bed. 

I spent real grown-up time with my friends.  I decided not to spend 11 hours writing a $100-200 article tomorrow and to stay home with my munchkins instead. 

I neither cried nor felt the urge to once. 

And maybe that was it.  The end of the day had arrived, and I simply felt at peace.  I wasn't turning cartwheels, but I wasn't drinking tears with my coffee either.  I had worked well and, while there was more to do, I was satisfied with the progress we had made.  I was receiving help I felt uncomfortable taking, but I swallowed my pride and took it.  (I probably could have been more gracious, but the reasons for my tension will make a post for another day!) 


As I finish this blog, it is 10pm.  Not midnight, like I've done too frequently lately!  I'm ready for bed, but I'm not dragging from exhaustion.  It feels good. 

One of my dear college roommates texted me this today:  "Ah that is the magic of middle age, I am discovering.  We are better able to separate dream from reality.  More peace with reality and better enjoyment of dreams. ;)" 

When I first read it, I felt a little depressed.  I don't like giving up those hazy, cirrus-cloud dreams of romance and excitement and passion.  But now, I think I am understanding more of what she meant . . . and I am coming around to her way of thinking. 

There is a beauty in acceptance.  There is a peace in taking what is before you for what it is, without comparing it to the past, the future, someone else's present, or the unreal ideal of youth.  Today I experienced some moments of quiet contentment, and I cherished them. 

It truly was a good day.