There was an important moment at the kitchen sink a few weeks ago. Matt was in the hospital, I was home with the kids and doing it all and taking care of it all, and I was angry. Not at anyone or anything in particular, but I was so exhausted and so angry at the relentlessness of everything. The only way to cope was minute by minute, and with each minute my resentment was growing into something very large and heavy and ugly.
I was leaning over the awful corner sink, installed by those awful people who owned the house before us, who thought it would be a good idea to retrofit the kitchen with a sink that requires leaning at an inhuman angle. I was thinking about how angry I was and about how much I hated my life in that moment.
Then, the simplest and most unassuming little thought fluttered into my mind: “What if I don’t really hate my life? What if I just think I do?” Then silence for a moment. Even the kid volume was low momentarily.
Then I laughed, shook my head like a dog shakes out the rain, and went back to washing the dishes. I didn’t really hate my life, and the thoughts that had made me believe I did were gone.