Resiliant

The system shows itself before the day even begins. It's there in the quiet moment when I first open my eyes and already feel the weight of the hours ahead. Three kids. Three grades. Three different set of needs waiting to unfold. I move through the house softly, trying not to wake up the babies while I squeeze in a quick morning workout.

Thoughts race through my head. The refrigerator hums. Inside, the groceries we bought stretch thinner than anticipated. Milk is low and the berries I bought just yesterday have already molded. Snacks are gone faster than we can budget for them. I calculate the next grocery trip in my head. The rising cost of gas and groceries. Everything seems to cost more, even when you're buying less. The system isn't one thing. It's the accumulation of small demands that never stop.

The kids wake. Izzy needs help with math. Eli can't find his plushie. Lily is hungry again. I move between them like a hinge on a door. Opening, closing, adjusting, redirecting. Homeschooling is a structure I build daily, something I must maintain on my own without school bells and a cafeteria for even the smallest break. There is no one to tag in. I am the teacher in every subject of all three grades, and it isn't easy shifting my attention between three growing minds.

The public school system feels unreliable to me. Teachers are spread thin with classes of 20 students. This makes more sense. It's safer, more stable, and more aligned to suit our family's needs. It's a choice, one I am proud of. But it's not an easy one.

The kids are growing constantly. Shoes that fit last month don't fit now. Pants seem to be shrinking, and shirts are stretching tighter over tummies and shoulders that were two sizes smaller last week. In my head, I'm making a mental checklist of who needs what. There is no pause button for growth and no assistance for it either.

We make too much to qualify for help but not enough to feel secure. It's a narrow ledge to stand on and one that requires constant balance. One unexpected bill and the whole month tilts. We have stretched a single income like pizza dough pulled so thin praying it doesn't tear. Some months, it does anyway.

Daycare is a luxury we can't afford. Even if I got a job outside of the home, childcare would swallow my paycheck whole. Math never works in our favor. The system says we don't qualify for assistance, but it also says I can't afford to participate in the workforce. It's a constant loop with no visible exit.

My husband feels the loop too, but from the other side. He wakes up even earlier than me, long before the sun. He moves quietly through the room using his cell phone light as a flashlight to try and not wake me up. His job is demanding both mentally and physically. He carries the pressure of being the provider in a world where one income does not stretch the way it used to. He shoulders the responsibility of keeping our family afloat while maintaining a home built on love and old-fashioned values: hard work, loyalty, sacrifice, doing right by your family even when the world makes it harder every year.

He doesn't complain and rarely ever talks about the stress directly. But I can see it in his eyes and the way he exhales after work. I see it in the way he rubs the back of his neck and the way he checks the bank account before even buying the smallest thing for himself. He carries the weight of being the one who "brings home the bacon" while also reassuring me how valuable and appreciated the work I do at home is.

The system doesn't see that. It doesn't measure the value of a father who works long hours and still comes home ready to help clear the table after dinner. It doesn't measure the value of a mother who keeps the entire household functioning. It doesn't care about a family trying to live by principles that feel increasingly out of step with the world around them.

The system measures income. Productivity. Taxes. Hours clocked. It doesn't measure love or effort. It doesn't measure the invisible labor that keeps our family running. It doesn't see you as a person. It sees you as a walking dollar sign that can line its own pocket.

Inside our home, the system is different. It's built from routines and improvisation. I've mastered the ability to pivot when one of the kids spill juice or loses focus and needs comfort. Our system is one of understanding that no one else is coming to help. Ever. No grandparents stepping in. No siblings offering a break. No extended family to lean on. The absence is its own presence. It's a quiet space where support should be.

I play all of the roles that childhood requires: the tooth fairy, slipping coins under pillows. Santa, wrapping up gifts after midnight and leaving a trail of cookie crumbs for the kids to find. The Easter bunny, hiding eggs before the sun rises. We create magic from exhaustion and tradition from thin air. The kids believe because we make it believable. They feel held because we hold everything for them.

My husband has his roles too. Protector. Provider. The steady one. The one who fixes what breaks, including me at times. He works through pain and fatigue because our family depends on him. He carries the pressure of being the financial backbone even when the numbers aren't adding up the way we'd like them to. He carries the fear of what might happen if he got sick or injured or laid off... and he carries the hope that his hard work will be enough.

As for me, the afternoon brings lunch time and then more lessons. Someone has a breakthrough... or maybe a break down. I clean as I go through it all because if I don't the mess grows faster than I can contain it. Laundry multiplies like rabbits and the dishes stack up. Toys grow legs and come up missing causing meltdowns and papers scatter and get torn up which causes... yep... more meltdowns. I gather it all and sort them where they belong, knowing they'll escape again tomorrow.

Before I know it it's already time to cook dinner and clean the kitchen again. My husband comes home, worn from his own day and we exchange notes like two people passing notes in the hallways. We both know the math of our life: One income, five people, rising costs, no safety net. It doesn't need to be said out loud. He gives me a kiss on my forehead and then it's bath time, Pjs, teeth brushing, stories, and finally lights out. We move through the motions with practiced efficiency, even when we are exhausted.

After the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet, we lay in bed and share the silence and the weight... but also the love. Laughing about a silly joke one of the kids made or something our dog did. It's what keeps us going.

The system outside doesn't know about any of this. The long hours he works? More tax dollars for them. The values we are trying to pass on to our kids? Let someone else do it. It doesn't know about the sacrifices we both make to keep these values alive and it wouldn't care anyways.

The system is stupid. It asks too much and offers too little. It rewards the wrong things while overlooking the essential ones. It leaves a lot of families like ours in the gap between "too much" and "not enough". It's balanced on a line that was never designed to hold us.

But I keep going and so does he. We make it work every day in ways no chart or policy or budget will ever capture.