I lay down on the mat and listened to the Moomins. And nothing had brought me so much joy in a very long time.
And it’s not about the Moomins. It’s about the fact that I gave up. On folding laundry. On washing dishes. On writing. On cooking. On catching up with paperwork.
It doesn’t happen to me often. My simple sense of duty is so strong that I don’t stop. Because when I do, I feel as though I’m letting life slip through my fingers and our world is falling apart into chaos. And I don’t know how to live in chaos. I get angry right away.
I lay down on the mat and listened to the Moomins with my boys. They were drawing while I listened.
I’ll fold the laundry later. I’ll cook later. Tomorrow I’ll write, though I don’t know what yet. Maybe this. That I let go. Maybe someone needs to hear it.
I think this is one of the better things about being an adult. I can tell myself: stop. I can tell myself: rest. I can decide that I don’t want either order or achievements. In exchange for silence and a slower pace. For closeness at home. For a strong body and a lighter mind.
I feel like it never ends — the list of things that need to be done. From washing and sterilizing my son’s bottle, to checking ticket prices to Poland and back, to fixing a toy car made of building blocks (because to someone little, that’s very important).
But sometimes, I swear, all I can do is cook a meal. Or send my husband to get one.
Last Saturday, I was alone with the children all day. My husband left for Nampula at 6 a.m. and got home at 10 p.m. But I even baked banana bread! Life was going smoothly for us until 5 p.m., when Joseph lay down on the bed and said he needed to rest. And with him, that means one thing: a high fever.
Then it began — medicine, compresses, throwing up medicine, David, who can now get into everything, Francis, who still needs my attention. They were asleep when my husband got home. And I checked on Joseph every two hours throughout the night.
That’s why the next afternoon I lay down on the mat and listened to the Moomins. The sun was sinking and turning everything golden as I fell asleep. I felt the way I did when I was a child and was sick myself. Justified in my inactivity. Justified in lying down. Lost in a story from another world. Wrapped in the arms of the Most High.
Francis woke me up. He asked, “Mummy, can dogs jump?” I opened my eyes with gratitude. That even if sometimes all I can do is cook dinner, I am someone to whom another person can come with any question. Even when I’m asleep.
Dear mothers, leave something undone today. And lie down for a while.
You are justified.
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