I’ve got two cans of peaches in the bottom of my pantry. I bought them during the fall while dreaming of making a warm peach crumble with vanilla ice cream on the side. My hopes were slightly crushed when my husband reminded me that he does not enjoy crumbles. Or peaches. (I feel like this should have been talked about in premarital counseling.) My kids prefer their treats in the form of cookies and wouldn’t dare try anything new. So the cans sat unopened, collecting dust while I baked up some pre-made chocolate chip cookies instead.
In hindsight I should have just made the crumble for myself to enjoy for breakfast (or a late-night treat). As I write this I’m realizing that, duh, I could make it to enjoy this weekend. I don’t need to wait on a special occasion or someone else to make it for. It seems so simple when you think of it that way.
Why does it feel like making something isn’t worth it or worthy of spending time on if only I am the one who will enjoy it? I make things solely for my children’s enjoyment or at the request of my husband simply because I want to see them happy. I don’t worry over the time spent or money involved, the complexity or simplicity of the recipe or assembly and clean up of the craft supplies. So why do I not allow myself the same indulgence?
The prompt for this morning was peaches. That’s it. One word. I’m not sure what I thought I would be writing about but it certainly did not involve diving so deeply into the irony of my love language being serving and my blatant refusal to serve myself sometimes. It feels like I’m withholding love from myself. Maybe I am.
Aren’t we all doing some version of this as mother’s though? Pouring all of our time, energy, love, service and joy into others around us—children, husbands, friends. But failing to care for our own mental, emotional, physical and spiritual selves. No wonder we are so burned out, touched out and overwhelmed by bedtime.
There has to be a happy medium here. Not necessarily balance, because I hate the implication that there is perfection to be had if you just find the right weight to hold in each hand. My arms are tired just thinking about it. It’s ok to set some things down or hand them off when it’s too heavy. I need help. We need help. And that’s ok. Tonight let’s ask for help with dinner clean up while we go take a long hot shower, read a chapter, paint our chipped nails. Whatever sounds fun and relaxing. That way we can return for bed time stories and actually enjoy the chaos before sleep settles over our home.
Whew. That got deep. I sense some serious God-and-me conversations on the horizon.
Back to the subject of peaches. I love buying them fresh but I feel as if there is this tiny window between “rock hard” and “absolute mush”. I almost always miss that window and toss them into the trash, vowing to eat them quicker next time. (Spoiler: that will never happen. Why am I like this?) thank goodness for the canned peaches, y’all!
Im gonna go find a recipe for crumble, add ice cream to the grocery list and remind myself to ask for help so I can pour into myself a little more. I hope you do the same, friend.
All of this from some peaches. I see you, God.