"Consistently, for the last 10 years, my catchphrase has been "next week it'll all calm down". Usually by the Wednesday of any given week, I'll have uttered it with palpable desperation at least four times. And my goal for this elusive calm week isn't even that ambitious, all I want is to finally feel caught up with myself. To feel, even if only for a fleeting moment, like I am on top of things."
"Usually by the Wednesday of any given week, I'll have uttered it with palpable desperation at least four times. And my goal for this elusive calm week isn't even that ambitious, all I want is to finally feel caught up with myself. To feel, even if only for a fleeting moment, like I am on top of things. I mutter the incantation and picture the mocking answers of the Parenting Gods. Me: Next week it'll all calm down."
For ten years I have relied on the catchphrase "next week it'll all calm down" as a hopeful promise. By Wednesday each week I have said it with palpable desperation at least four times. The hoped-for calm week is modest: to feel finally caught up with myself and, even briefly, on top of things. I mutter the phrase like an incantation and imagine the Parenting Gods offering mocking answers. The repetition reveals persistent overwhelm, a yearning for a short reprieve, and the small, recurring ritual of hope that punctuates a hectic parenting life.
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