I am Blissfully Domestic, though I sure don’t always feel blissful in my domesticity. There are days when I feel I’m barely getting by, in fact. Keeping up with 4-year-old triplets will do that to a person, I suppose.

I rush, rush, rush. I nag, nag, nag. I clean up the same messes over and over and over again. I yell at my husband. I lose my temper with my children. I snap at my in-laws (who happen to be living with us temporarily). I sweep the crumbs under the fridge and vow to worry about them later (shh!). I throw my arms up in defeat. I question whether I’m cut out to be this woman I’ve become.

And yet.

At the end of the day when I tiptoe quietly into the kids’ room and see them sleeping there, thumbs securely stuck in their precious mouths, I do feel bliss. Much like the sweet, soft blankets they snuggle,  I feel a tender contentment that comfortably covers the frustrations of the day. I know that I’ve made mistakes. I know I have been far from perfect. But I know I have loved.

And love, my friends, is blissful indeed.

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(photo used with permission from Kyle Hitchcock Photography)