Seasons.

I know I’m late to the party, but this past winter I developed some strong feelings for my jeggings. My Old Navy Rockstar jeggings became my go-to pants of the winter – providing a warm, flexible cocoon for my ever-expanding thighs. Their flexibility was perfect for my days of playing on the floor with the kids, yet slightly more acceptable than sweatpants to wear when running errands or doing pick-up. I didn’t have to worry about the inevitable sag that would lead to an inevitable display of an unsightly crevice. They slid perfectly into my big heavy boots, giving me at least some extra movement while making the trudge through two feet of snow with a squirmy two-year-old.

I’m ever so grateful that summer has bestowed all of its blessings on us. No longer must I spend an extra 15 minutes lacing boots on myself while attempting to herd two small children into warms clothes. However, we still live in Minnesota. Even during summer, cool days interrupt the breathless heat that envelopes our state. Clouds block the oppressive sun and the mornings require a warm cup of coffee and a sweatshirt. It was on such a morning that I eyed my jeggings sitting all lonely in my line of pants. I excitedly grabbed them, thinking they would be the perfect complement to a day in the park. My excitement quickly abated as I tried to pull up these pants. While the temperature was cool the air was thick with humidity. The water in the air clung to my legs and I spent ten minutes unsuccessfully trying to inch these jeggings up my legs. Apparently, it was not the season for jeggings.

I was reminded of other seasons in my life when an attempt to pull up my pants remained fruitless: my first time attempting to unsuccessfully button my jeans when a growing baby bulged my belly. And those days after having a baby, as I fumbled blurry-eyed through life grasping at anything that would give me a sense of my former self, I frustratingly threw a pair of pants that I could no longer pull up over my thighs, sure that some awful practical joker had switched out my closet with smaller clothes.

It seems like an awful amount of pressure to put on a pair of pants. Or more accurately, on ourselves. We change and grow so much throughout our lives it is impossible not to expect our bodies to do the same. Yet for whatever reason, we fixate on keeping the body we had when teenagers – without the spectrum of experiences that have made us all the more older and wiser. I for one would never want to revert back to my teenage years where, yes, the responsibility was far less as was the number on the scale, but so were the experiences, the knowledge, and the wisdom.

Yes, I sometimes look at pictures of myself ten, fifteen years ago and long for that flat stomach and narrow hips. But I would never trade in the life I have built for myself with my husband and two small kids. The difficult times have built a strong foundation that simply did not exist  - I was a thin, rootless tree. Now, I have deep roots and a strong trunk. A trunk that no longer fits into the same jeans I used to.

Sometimes, for our pants and in our lives, it is simply not the season. I’ve struggled with the pull to take on challenging, intellectual work while at home with two small kids. I feel mentally ready to accept new challenges, but it is simply too hard to fit in during this season of life. The risks and challenges will wait in the back of my closet until the right season approaches. And then, I will excitedly resurrect these pair of pants. Maybe they will fit. Maybe they won’t. They may need alterations. Or I might need a completely new pair of pants. Whatever the case, I feel confident in my foundation knowing it will not change even if the season - and my pants - do.