More

Sometimes (read: most of the time) I wish I was more. I wish I did more, created more, read more, gave more, and perhaps ate less. It all starts with a little nudge. Someone says to me, “Oh Rachel, you could make millions if you just ________.” Or maybe I happen upon a blog and something that someone wrote really inspires me. I think to myself, “I could do that!” Or more accurately, “I wish I did that!”

Once I saw a documentary on BYU TV that talked about a woman in downtown SLC who became known as the bread woman. She simply realized that grocery stores got rid of a ridiculous amount of food at the end of the day because it wasn’t fresh. So she decided she’d go pick it up and put it on her porch so that anyone who needed it could come and grab it for free. “Genius!” I thought. Such a simple idea, yet it’s impacting who knows how many homeless people and people who are simply down on their luck. I wish I did something like that. And then I thought about having all sorts of homeless people, perhaps of the unsavory variety poking around my porch. It would be a lot of work anyway, so I stopped thinking about it. That’s usually how it ends up. And then something perks up my noble thread or taps me on the back and the cycle starts over.

And so I start planning. I write the bare bones of that book I want to flesh out one day, or at least think about it as I go to sleep. I plan a clothing drive in place of exchanging neighbor gifts at Christmas time, on paper at least. I watch a movie about a teacher who helps underprivileged children and I make plans to find some kids on the street and educate them. But what would I do with my kids during the day while I am saving the world one crack-baby at a time? Oh yeah, I have kids.

It all stops, and I am brought back to the reality that I am living my greatest dream right now! I am a mother of two beautiful children. It’s all I really ever wanted, so why do I find myself being so discontent, EVER? I should just be basking in the dream that is my reality. I get to snuggle with my kids in the morning and make them breakfast. Since I’m the mom I get to have the final say in the great debate between cereal or pancakes, oh the power! I get to blow bubbles and write with sidewalk chalk and read books upon books on an old blanket under the shade of our globe willow tree. I have magical kisses that make owies all better and I am a rock star comedian as long as I play peek-a-boo with them outside the car while I fill up the tank. I get to peek in their rooms at night before I go to bed and see those chubby, warm cheeks resting on their pillows.

Of course, I realize I’m painting a pretty rosy picture of motherhood. We all know it’s not always like this. In fact, the majority of the time I’ve been writing this I’ve been fending off a little girl who thinks it’s her life’s mission to put socks and shoes on my feet, and I just finished wiping her bum after she went #2. Yep. Reality, right? And I think it’s in the more routine moments of motherhood that I think to myself, “What am I doing here?” I forget that right now, what matters most is the mundane things. My kids need me to do the laundry, not write a best seller. They need me to make them dinner and then do the dishes after, not create a non-profit organization. They need me to stop whatever I’m doing and cuddle them without interruption for 20 minutes, not anything else. Why is this so hard to keep in perspective sometimes?