Full Hands

Tonight I realized something.  

I realized it while I was standing in my very dirty kitchen wearing the same spit-up covered pajamas I've had on for the past 2 days, holding a 3 week-old crying baby with one hand, trying to make a bottle with the other, while simultaneously burning dinner and spilling an entire gallon of orange juice all over the floor.  

And this is what I realized: 

I am in over my head.

And I really, truly, honestly like it that way. 

 I dropped Luke off at the airport on Saturday for his rotation in Seattle and had a minor break-down as the realization that I was about to be a short-term single parent kicked in. 

So, like any normal person would do, I decided that the best way to beat the blues was head to the zoo.  While there, a older man struck up a conversation with me and made the commonly repeated statement, 

"Wow.  You've got your hands full." 

 

 And I found myself not really knowing what to say.

I mean, I know my hands are full.  

And I know that sometimes it looks like they're so full I'm about to drop everything in them. 

 And I know that not having three children to tote around would make my hands a lot less full.  

(And I'd probably have manicured nails on my less full hands, too.)

And I'm aware (painfully) that my full hands sometimes make it more difficult for me to have the things that I want to have and go to the places that I want to go and do the things that I want to do.

And it's certainly no secret that my full hands can sometimes make me appear completely and totally insane.

 And as I thought about my response to the old man, I realized that he was right.  

My hands are full.  

 And I am so, so thankful that they're not empty.