Well, here we are again staring May right in the face. It happens so quickly every year. We were just getting back on track from Christmas, and here’s May right in our business. But this year is different. This year I’m ready for you, May. I won’t be fooled by your notions of spring and the celebration of mothers. We both know that those are both ploys to catch me off guard from what you truly bring—”The May-hem”.
I have steeled myself against your ridiculous schedule and demands. I’m no longer surprised by your nonsense. Because why shouldn’t we have at least 2-3 school events a week? Dress like your favorite book character, crayon, preposition—sure, no problem. Science fair, field trips, music performances and award ceremonies yes, please! Be sure we schedule all of these things in May and could we do it smack dab in the middle of the day? Or maybe after school so that we can disrupt all of the after- school activities as well? Those activities all have their own May fun. Piano recitals, sports banquets, play-off games let’s get those in, too! And how could we forget life events? Graduations, First Communions, birthdays–there’s room for everyone in May.
It’s OK, though. I know this about May. I’m not scared. In fact, I’m excited. I’m going to dominate May this year. I see it as a gauntlet laid out by the Universe—like American Ninja Warrior, but the obstacles consist of 389 events rather than a rope climbing wall. I think the climbing wall sounds easier—it would definitely be more fun. This isn’t my first May and, if I’m being honest, I haven’t always handled previous Mays with grace. Usually my coping mechanisms are a lot of internal profanity, wine and commiserating with all of my friends about the brutality of the May-hem.
But, not this year! I’ve got my planner ready. I will utilize both paper and electronic versions for added protection. I started filling May in weeks ago, but we all know there’s a lot more to come. My May strategy is to only focus on one week at a time. Listen to me, people—DO NOT LOOK TWO WEEKS AHEAD! It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s what makes you want to give up. Stay focused on only the next 72 hours, it’s the only way to survive. Also, if you haven’t already, do not volunteer for ANYTHING in May. End of the year party? Not for you. Teacher appreciation week? Don’t do it. Your May was booked solid weeks ago, trust me.
Your calendar is booked—like two or three things a week in addition to the 64 things that were in there regularly. So, repeat after me: “I’m, sorry I’d love to (chair the talent show, organize the teacher gifts, attend your child’s birthday party—insert any May activity) but I’m unavailable. You are unavailable. You have never had any less availability than you do this month. You will have to say “no.” Did you get that? You will have to say “no” or you will die—May will kill you; death by over commitment.
After you politely decline, you will have to practice not caring. You cannot care that the other moms don’t think you’re involved enough, that you missed little Suzy’s party or that you didn’t turn in your teacher appreciation haiku. You cannot care. This is May. We are under siege and it’s every woman for herself. You have to make the tough decisions and protect yourself and your sanity. Disappointed some people in May? That means you’re doing it right.
The good news about May is that it provides at least one long weekend and it’s only 31 days long. You can do this. You will have far too many things to do/buy/return, but you can do it. You were made for this level of multi-tasking and organization. Keep your head in the game. Try not to let the May-hem cloud the beauty of these events. Enjoy these milestones with your people. Take heart and know that summer break is right around the corner. Oh, you need to start planning that—you guessed it, in May! Stay strong, mamas.
My sweet baby is learning to tie her shoes. In the spirit of full disclosure, she is probably learning this skill at least a year later than her older siblings. We only started this process when she informed me that she was one of the only children in her class that had yet to master the art of shoe-tying. I probably had a book on tying your shoes for my oldest, we probably attending some kind of “tie your shoes” class and had a “you can tie your shoes party.” I honestly don’t remember, but I’m sure I was much more on top of it. She is my third and final child—don’t judge me!
But this is not about my slack parenting, it’s about what this little nugget taught me while she was learning to tie her shoes. Learning to tie your shoes is not easy. It’s super frustrating, tedious and difficult to master. Which is most likely why I was avoiding it on this last go-around. This small person with her tiny fingers has to manipulate giant pieces of string in a weird pattern that makes no sense. She is frustrated. She cries. She wants to give up. She says she’s “never going to learn.” She angrily throws her new tie shoes into her closet and slams the door. I get it. Until, I peak in to check on her five minutes later and she’s leaning over trying her darndest to make that knot and pull those loops. She’s not giving up.
In that moment, I realized that what she is learning is so much more than how to secure a knot. She’s learning about herself. She’s figuring out what she’s made of. Later while we were getting ready for school, I told her that I was proud of her, not because she mastered it, but because she wouldn’t give up. I explained to her that every time you learn anything new it’s hard and you’re not good at it. I also explained that every time you quit you have to start that process all over again. So, you’re always better off to keep trying.
She was proud of herself for not giving up. She still can’t really tie her shoes well enough to wear them to school for the entire day, but she knows that one day she will. She believes that she will do it.
I’m not sure why it’s taken me three kids and a set of untied shoelaces to see the lesson here, but I never said I was a quick study. Life can be tough and tedious and make no sense. The process that you have to go through to reach your goals, be a better version of yourself or feel comfortable in your own skin is often painstaking, and you think you’ll never get there. You want to cry and throw your shoes in the closet. But, you don’t. I mean you do—but then you put those puppies back on and begin trying to figure out the loops and knots. You feel like you’re getting it and then the whole thing falls apart. But you’ve learned that if you keep trying eventually, that knot will secure. You’ll figure out. So, I’m grateful that I slacked on this last kiddo. I’m happy that I got to appreciate her process and get a glimpse of the kind of woman she will eventually grow to be. I’m most thankful that her struggle and determination reminded me to appreciate my own.
This is a bit of a journey but stick with me. I bought a new chair for our living room. This rendered all of my existing throw pillows useless. It also brought about hours of browsing interior design hashtags and Pinterest boards. I have spent far too much time trying to find the new, winning throw pillow combination. Thankfully, I am surrounded by loving friends that get my particular form of home decor crazy. I have sent my dear friend no less than thirty pictures of pillows and their various combinations. She has never once questioned these ridiculous photos, because she is my people. But this is not about the importance of your tribe or your people. This is about learning from what is right in front of you.
In case you haven’t been following along. I like my ducks in proverbial row and I am wildly impatient. So, when the long-anticipated chair arrived and brought with it the unfinished business of throw pillows, I was not pleased. I like things done, put together. I just basically created a new problem for myself—annoying. I get that in the large scheme of life throw pillows are beyond trivial. They literally do not matter—at all. However, in the decorating scheme of things, they are often the special little things that tie a space together. I have watched no less than ten million hours of HGTV, so I am beyond qualified to write on this subject.
So, I’m on the hunt for pillows. I have scoured every local store. I have purchased and returned twenty pillows. I have at least ten more that are being shipped from my online endeavors and… nothing works. None of them look quite right. I like them, but not with the couch AND the chairs. It’s just not meshing. So, now I have about fifteen pillows sprawled all over my living room. My family has stopped asking pillow-related questions, because they KNOW better. I ran into a mom from school while I was returning two hefty bags of pillows to HomeGoods. She for sure thinks I’m crazy, but I know what I’m doing. I’m trying to make it all fit. I’m trying to get it to all work.
Today after one last internet delivery and one final shopping trip I think I have finally achieved what I set out to do. As I was basking in my pillow glory and soaking it all in, it occurred to me that this pillow nonsense is a lot like life. I set out to do something. I have a vision in mind. It doesn’t always work out on the first try. I have to remove things, bring new things in—and it still isn’t quite right. I want to take action, to make things happen, but often the only thing to do is wait. The process is painful. I just want it to be over, so I can enjoy the fruits of my labor. That’s not how it works. You can’t force things. You can’t always find what you need at the exact right moment. Sometimes you have something great, but it just doesn’t work at the time.
Today in my final shopping trip I actually tried to re-purchase one of the first pillows I bought. The first time around, it was a definite “NO.” Now, after a couple of weeks and a couple of dozen pillows it’s regained its appeal. Now, the thing I thought wouldn’t work makes sense. If I hadn’t tortured myself with this purchasing process, I wouldn’t have really known what I was looking for—the process helped me figure it out. I hate the process. I mean, I appreciate the process and I know it’s necessary and I try to tune into it (which is how I’m able to turn a throw pillow search into a metaphor about life), but it’s not always pleasant for a doer like me.
In the middle, you are often doing all of the right things. You are focusing on what matters and being intentional and present and yet, NOTHING happens. You keep pushing forward; you try not to be frustrated. You are SO frustrated. You just don’t understand why nothing is happening–why you can’t find what you’re looking for? Until you find it. Until all the cold calls you’ve been making finally pay off and someone actually wants to speak with you. Until all of the hours you’ve spent trying to build your business pay off and you start to feel that you actually might be getting somewhere. Until all of the time you’ve spent telling your child that they’re wonderful and awesome and capable finally starts to reveal itself in the form of their very own self-confidence.
I do not anticipate it will last long. Tomorrow will bring new challenges and changes. But, for tonight, I will enjoy the fact that I closed that loop. I will recognize that sometimes all the pieces I’m given don’t fit—until they do. I will try to remember that almost nothing in this world is working on my time-table. I will take heart that moving forward is really the only choice. And I will do it all perched atop the most fabulous pillow combination you’ve ever laid eyes on!
It’s a question asked by millions of mothers around the world almost every night. To be fair, it’s really not dinner’s fault. I love to cook. A great many of my friends enjoy cooking. We just don’t enjoy making dinner. Every night. Over and over again for a less than enthusiastic audience.
It’s the audience that really ruins it. I have five people in my family including myself. The odds of me preparing a meal that everyone likes are about 0.01%. This is not because I don’t know what my family likes. I have a very intimate knowledge of all of their preferences. They are kind enough to reiterate them ad nauseam. They are also sweet enough to remind me with loving phrases like “ugh, chicken again!” or “oh no, not this again.” They like to keep me on my toes by changing said preferences at a moment’s notice—this is one is the best. I think that I’m making someone’s favorite meal and as we sit down to eat, said child informs me that they don’t like this. This is the same child that proclaimed this very same meal his “absolute favorite” last week—like seven days ago! So, after spending time and thought trying to prepare a nice family meal; being met with this audience is disheartening at best and infuriating at worst. But I know, it’s not me, it’s them.
Everyone Is A Chef
The other night while I was in the middle of preparing dinner—I mean apron on, cutting board active, pans heating– my thirteen-year-old came into the kitchen, assessed the situation and began naming things (other than what I was already making) that he was really interested in eating. I’m sorry, what? The following evening my younger son happened upon me in the midst of meal prep and began “suggesting” things I could make. He was apparently in the mood for a soup or a stew and I was sadly already making pork chops. You see, apparently, unbeknownst to me, all of my children are culinary experts. A few seasons of watching Chopped under their belts and they’re not only able to offer helpful suggestions like, soup when it’s eighty-two degrees outside, but they’re also able to give me some great notes. I especially like it when they tell me the “texture is off” or that I’ve “over seasoned” something. It’s super helpful.
The last time I checked I was the only person in my home that actually cooks food for consumption. I have taught all of my children how to make various recipes. They have enjoyed learning and executed them fabulously. Oddly, it seems that the minute after our cooking lessons were completed my children experienced a full mind erase. So, while I know they are capable, they seem to have no recollection of how to make any of the dishes I taught them. Thankfully they still have that wide base of general culinary knowledge that allows them to critique beautifully.
On The Clock
The timing and frequency of dinner is its other main problem. It’s usually set to take place at the end of everyone’s day and in the middle of about thirty-six other activities. That leaves you preparing a meal in the middle of driving people places, helping with homework and attempting to finish anything that you need to get done before close of business. It also leaves you and everyone in your family in their “end of the day mood.” That’s sort of like a Russian roulette of emotions. You could have a kid crying? You’ve definitely got at least one in a bad mood and at least three days a week you’re going to have to perform some kind of legitimate psychological counseling. This all takes place between the hours of 4-6 P.M. right when you’re supposed to…be making dinner.
If you were smart and lucky maybe you prepped stuff earlier because you knew you would have exactly twenty-three minutes to actually throw everything together (before talking a child of their psychological ledge). Perhaps you got in early with the help of a slow cooker and are winning at life by having that fabulous little machine cook for you when you’re not even there. Even with the fantastic advances in modern kitchen machinery, my guess is you’re still rushing. So, now it really is like an episode of Chopped. You’re attempting to get your chicken in the oven, make some kind of vegetable that everyone will eat, and people are scurrying all around you screaming “times up!” Enjoyable, right?
Then there’s the frequency. Every. Night. Like, no breaks, ever. Even if you order take-out, it’s an annoying process (see earlier reference to no one liking or agreeing on anything). In some way shape or form you are responsible for providing these people with some form of sustenance every night. It’s exhausting. You try to come up with new ideas. You attempt to cycle in some crowd favorites. But, that dinner hangs over your head every day. It taunts you. Sometimes you block it out and then it surprises you in the middle of the day and sends you into an immediate panic scramble.
Oh, dinner, why? I really do enjoy you. I enjoy making you at my own pace with a glass of wine in hand. I love to enjoy you, preferably with adults or children that aren’t complaining. But the demands you place upon me are cruel and unusual. I know I will not always feel this way about you. We are just going through a rough patch in our relationship. I hope that in a few years we can once again enjoy and appreciate each other. For now, I will keep my head down and keep churning you out on a daily basis to a less than appreciative audience. I will continue to try to expand their horizons and feed them delicious and nutritious things. If that doesn’t work, then I will pray that they all marry terrible cooks so that they will one day truly appreciate me.
Monday notoriously gets a bad wrap. It has long played the role of most dreaded day of the week. There’s at least a million shirts, coffee mugs and memes that proclaim the sadness of Monday. But you know what I’ve realized? I like Monday. I mean, I really like it—it could be one of my favorites. Before you call me crazy, let me tell you why.
It’s All In The Mind
I think Monday first started growing on me when I changed the way I thought about it. Much like the friend that evolved into the boyfriend, Monday snuck up on me and I realized, he had a lot of charm and appeal. I started to view Monday in a different way—I took him out of the friend zone. I began to appreciate the hope that Monday offered. Monday is a new start, a new beginning, maybe it’s even a re-do depending how your previous week went down. Whatever happened last week or last month or last night, Monday brings a new chance. It’s a logical place to evaluate and re-group. That’s why everyone starts their healthy eating/workout/no caffeine/ dairy free/insert your favorite resolution on a Monday—it’s the beginning. The beginning of whatever you want it to be. It may be the beginning of a week filled with back to back meetings or travel or it may offer you beautiful open spaces in your calendar. When you sit down and look at Monday, you’re deciding what kind of a week you’re going to have. No matter if it promises to be a grueling one with challenges or an easy one, you get to look it in the eye and make a plan.
Back Where We Belong
Please don’t misunderstand, I love the weekend. The weekend is my jam. I will have to dedicate another post to accurately describe how much I truly love the weekend. However, if you have small people the weekend is not always what I would call “relaxing.” If you’re like me, on the weekend you have three people attending five different sports, a birthday party, completing a science project and trying to fit in as much video game time as humanly possible without your knowledge. You may also have family dinners, church or community obligations and perhaps you have (GASP!) your own social engagements. My point is the weekend is full throttle. Everyone is in your face all of the time. They need to be driven places, fed, picked up from places, fed again—it’s exhausting! Yes, you hopefully get to fit in some fun and some down time, but sometimes the weekend leaves me happy to see…you guessed it, my old pal, Monday!
Monday rolls around and everyone goes back to their perspective posts (read: school) where they stay for at least six hours. This then enables me to focus on the things that I need/want to get done. The first thing I usually do on Monday morning is to sift through the rubble that is currently passing as my home. Because these people are all over and everywhere through the weekend, no matter how many times I pick things up or make them pick things up the “things” are everywhere. I don’t even understand how it happens, it’s like Gremlins—things just multiply. I no sooner pick up a towel, when two more magically appear. It’s very defeating and there’s so much cooking and driving (see above) that I usually just forget it until they’ve all returned to their places of business. So, Monday is an opportunity to restore order—that’s a win.
All About Me
OK, it’s not really all about me, but a little. The weekend is spent primarily focused on my family. Monday allows me to bring the focus back to me. I get a chance to focus on what I need to get done for work. I have an opportunity to sit and make phone calls that are not possible when you are surrounded by the small people. It is the opportunity to focus on some of the things that remind me that I am an adult person independent of my family. Don’t get me wrong, I love my people, they’re the best. But sometimes mamma needs to sit quietly and speak with adults. I’ll still be doing my mom job—I’ll have to scour Amazon to source ridiculous requests, switch someone’s orthodontist appointment and try to find a cardboard box suitable for a talent show skit (true story). I just get to do these things, alone.
Alone is magical. It’s not that I don’t love my family. I just like to hang out with myself. Even it is working, sourcing nonsensical items, or folding laundry—there’s something peaceful about being alone in this hectic middle space. The business of raising humans doesn’t stop, it’s twenty-four hours a day, full-on in your face—it’ kind of sounds like a cage fight…hmm. Sometimes it’s OK to want a minute of quiet. It’s OK to love thinking about something else whether it’s work or your next great novel or what The Real Housewives are up to this week. Not only is it OK, it’s important. It’s important that you allow yourself time to be you.
So, Monday, you handsome devil, welcome back! I’m so happy to see you. We begin again, you and me. We get to figure out the craziness that is this life for the next seven days. We get to restore a little order, make some new plans, see what life has in store for us this week. Thanks for the love, Monday. I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier, but we truly are a good match.
Forty is the new twenty, right? That’s what everyone is saying, or maybe it’s just what my friends that are over forty are saying? I found myself thinking about how old I am the other day when my son referred to someone as “old” someone who I do not consider old, someone who is maybe ten years older than I am. What does that make me? Am I old? Am I about to be old?
Age is such a funny thing. When you’re young you can’t wait to grow up. When you are older you take great measures to “stay young.” But here in the middle we’re straddling the line. We’re not quite old—we’re not! We are also not what I would call young.
Do We Really Want To Be Young Again?
Here’s the thing, I’m not sure we’d want to be young again. Don’t get me wrong every year when my college girlfriends and I travel together we have the same wish—that we could go back in time and relive it, but just for a weekend. We wouldn’t want to live eternally in the land of free beer for ladies, 2 a.m. bedtimes and questionable dating choices. We have fond memories and, if time travel were possible, it would be hilarious to go back and take a look at that little piece of history. But I don’t think younger me is really where I’d want to spend my time.
I may be biased, but I actually think old me is way better than young me. I’m not just saying that because I obviously have no choice—I have reasons! First of all, younger me has no idea what she’s doing because she’s never really done anything. She’s a good student, a good friend and an overall responsible gal, but she hasn’t lived any life yet. She has no idea what she’s going to do, if she’ll be successful, how she’s going to achieve her goals? Young me is excited about all of these things, but she’s also a little intimidated, because: life.
Old me doesn’t have all of these problems. Well, she has some of these problems. I still don’t know what I’m going to do, if I’ll be successful or how I’ll achieve my goals. But unlike young me, old me isn’t intimidated. Old me knows that I can achieve things because I’ve proven it to myself over and over. Old me also knows that part of the fun is that no one ever really knows what’s next. We are all changing and growing all of the time. So, old me is already ahead.
Young me also cares entirely too much about what people think. She’s a pleaser and an achiever. She wants to “show the world” what she can do. Old me still cares, she just cares a lot less. She’s more interested in proving things to herself. She got to learn through time, that only achievements that were actually important to her were worthwhile—the others were kind of hollow and lackluster. Old me doesn’t really want to be around people who are keeping score, nor does she want to keep score. Old me is learning the art of not giving a flip.
The Good Stuff
In practical terms young me is a train wreck compared to old me. Young me does not know what styles look best on her frame. She tries fashion trends that are clearly not meant for her. (I’m not sure why we all dressed in business casual attire throughout the 90’s, but I’m going to blame it on Friends). Her living situation is sketchy at best. This is not her fault, she is young and has no money so sharing a bathroom with 3 roommates is just the norm. Young me understands the value of sunscreen, but she should have used it a little more. She also should have NEVER thought that she was overweight for one second of her young little life.
Old me is killing it here. Most importantly, old me has much better shoes. She will no longer try to jam her size 8 into a 7 ½ just because it is on sale. She can pay up for things that she loves and not feel badly about it. She is also aware that every fashion trend is most definitely not for her. While she tries to stay current, she knows how to stay in her lane. This makes her immune to the blue eye shadow trend as well as the comeback of overalls. Old me also lives in a grown-up house without 3 roommates (kids don’t count because that was our own fault and they don’t pay rent). She has a home, not a place where she lives. Old me LOVES sunscreen and hats. Old me tries to be healthy but does not beat herself up over what the scale says or a roll (or two) here and there. Old me has had THREE children so she is quite happy that her body is even still mostly holding it together. Old me is winning in the practical part of this exercise.
I was a little worried last week about falling into the “old” category. After some thought, I think I’m OK with it. If given the choice between the two, I’ll go old every time. Young me was fun and she taught me a lot. Old me is just better. She’s better at life and relationships. She’s surrounded herself with an amazing tribe. She has an appreciation for herself that young me just wasn’t privy to. She eats better food, drinks better wine and goes on way better vacations. Old me is almost exactly what young me was hoping she’d be. So, I’ll take being grouped into the “old” category–turns out, that’s where all the fun is.
I know it’s a strange idea, but Imma explain. You see if you’ve been reading along you know that I am a little bit of a Type A personality. I like things organized and orderly. I’m also a bit of a grammar nerd so I like my capitalization and punctuation and spelling correct. I would often catch little grammatical errors in some of the content I love to read and make a little mental red pen mark in my head. It was oddly satisfying, as my kids love to say. And then I began writing for public consumption.
I will first say that for almost any writer the idea of someone reading your thoughts is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. It takes a lot of courage to hit that publish button, to submit that manuscript, to write that letter to the editor. Sure, you want to express your thoughts and you want people to read them, but then people are going to read them—and probably have an opinion. The same applies with anyone who puts their creativity into the world—artists, chefs, designers—you want to share, but you want to do it in a non-vulnerable way. Unfortunately, that is not the way this works. Once whatever your creation is makes its way into the world, it’s fair game.
So, I obviously made it through the terror and decided to share my prose. I felt generally good about my foray into the published written word, until I read one of my pieces and found, you guessed it—MY OWN TYPO! I have to take a deep breath even writing about it. Of course, when I first saw it I was nowhere near a computer where I could immediately log on and correct it. I had to wait and think about it until I was finally able to rectify my error—the horror! I worked through it, the world didn’t end, and I chalked it up to my newness to the arena and the writing platform. Surely, everyone makes one mistake and there was mine so, check!
And then, guess what? I found another one! In a different piece! I just couldn’t believe that my crazy little editor, red-pen holding brain was allowing these things to happen. The second one wasn’t as shocking, but still stung. Until, you guessed it, I saw a third! Now here’s where it gets interesting. You see I read over everything before I publish it, but I don’t go back and look at it unless something makes me think to do so. So, by the time I found mistake number three I had quite a bit of stuff published. Although it was my immediate thought and earnest intention to go back and review every single piece with a fine-toothed comb—guess what? I didn’t. Not because I didn’t want to or because it didn’t bother me, but because I simply didn’t have time that particular week. And then another week passed and I still didn’t go back and double-check all of my posts. Who am I?
The answer, I think, is that I’m someone that’s trying to evolve into a better version of herself. You see, I’d rather take an hour to write something new than go back and pick apart what I’ve already written. Even though I keep finding mistakes I also keep writing. I’d rather live knowing there are some mistakes in my work, than to stop putting it out there. I am never going to be flawless in anything I do, ever. Do I want to put out the best possible pieces for you to read? Absolutely. Do I strive to be as close to impeccable as I can be? All of the time. But that doesn’t mean it’s always going go happen. If I allowed myself to be ruled by the fear of something living on the interweb that I’ve written with an error in it, you guys, I’d never write anything again. And, that would be sad because I love to write.
So, I found myself asking the question “where else do I need to give myself a break?” The answer was lots of places. What about you? Where are you OK having a typo here and there? In what areas of your life do you need to maybe put the red pen away? We are all so hard on ourselves. Is that self-criticism preventing us from greatness? I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet it’s not helping us in any way. So, if you’re a little grammar nerd like me, scroll back and have at it! See if you can mark my stuff up—send me an email and let me know what you find. I will eventually go back and edit some things. But, for now, I’m going to move forward not backward. I’m going to press on knowing that I will leave mistakes in my wake. I encourage you to the same. Write on, mamas!
—–In the most delicious footnote to this, I’d like you all to know that after writing this little gem I actually published it to the WRONG site! That’s right, I messed up publishing the piece about messing up–if that’s not poetic, I don’t know what is!!–XOXO–Jules
Working mom is such a silly term to me. I’ve never met a mom who doesn’t work–like all of the time. I don’t care if you report to an office each morning or you work in your jammies from home or you pick up after people, run carpool and lives all day—I’ve never met a mother who didn’t “work” all of the time.
See, that’s the thing with this motherhood gig. It doesn’t ever really stop, you don’t get any breaks or sick days. Maybe if you’re lucky, you get an adult vacation every once in a while. But, if you have a small person or persons that you are responsible for growing into a fully formed person, your job is all day, every day.
Even when they’re not with you, you’re on duty. My favorite is when people ask what you do all day while they’re at school? Hmm…mostly I try to piece our lives back together from whatever craziness took place the previous afternoon. I try to prepare for the non-stop insanity that will ensue the minute they arrive home from school. If I’m super lucky, I’ll get to attempt to pick up some of the debris that litters my house and apparently regenerates itself on an hourly basis (although oddly, this doesn’t happen when they are not at home). If I’m really killing it, I’ll get to do anywhere from one to twenty-five loads of laundry. I never really know what I’m going to do when these little cherubs depart In the morning, sometimes I just sit here and look around and think, “I just wish there was something to do.” Right.
The school day is also the fastest six hours known to man. I realize that it didn’t feel that way when I was the little person sitting in the desk. But, once you are a parent that six-hour window is like the amazing race. The minute that school bell rings, you’re free–temporarily. You’ll utilize all of your resources rushing from location to location. You’ll try to get far too many things done in far too little time. I don’t care how good you are at prioritizing or time management, at least one thing on that totally doable list will take four times longer than it should and you’ll find yourself racing through the pickup line like a Nascar driver ready to pit.
When you work out of the home or from your home, you’ve got the added luxury of trying to compartmentalize your mom brain from your work brain. If you have a home office, you try to hide in there for as long as possible before you’re distracted by the mountain of laundry or the litany of dirty dishes. If you go to an office every day you have the added, really monumental, task of getting yourself ready and presentable whilst getting small people out the door. That this even happens at all several days of the week is truly miraculous and should be studied for the betterment of (wo)mankind. No matter how you work, Amazon Prime is your soul mate because you are able to source the enormous list of daily requests—a new mouth guard, a revolutionary war costume, rock salt (these are actual requests that I’ve received—I could NOT even begin to make this up). I’m not sure what any moms did before Amazon (did they actually go to all of these stores?), but I can tell you that I NEVER want to find out.
So, I think we should stop asking any mother of children if she works. She just told you she has two kids? She works. She’s spending her Saturday on a field bringing snacks to youth sports? She’s on the job. Her people show up alive and well and relatively clean to school every day? That’s because she’s a professional. She takes the business of her people seriously. And while, some days, it is either the world’s best job or its most thankless—every mom got a full-time job the minute she took on the role. Keep working it, mamas!
I think I might be a morning person? I can’t quite believe it and I feel like kind of a fraud saying it. But, over the last couple of years I have been getting up earlier than the rest of my house ON PURPOSE—it’s like I don’t even know who I am. Let me explain.
First you should know that I have NEVER enjoyed getting up in the morning. I am one of those people who prefers that no one speak to me for at least a few hours. I like to ease into my day. Then I had children.
Whether it’s a baby crying because they’re hungry or a two-year-old holding a toy pig up to your sleeping face, the wake-up routine becomes a little different when you’re a mother. I like to call it “getting shot out of a cannon.” It’s like you are some crazy circus performer. While you might very well be deep in the throes of REM sleep, before both eyes are open or your feet have touched the floor small people are asking you questions, touching you or in need of some general assistance that only you can provide. This is not how I like to start my day.
Like it or not, it was exactly how I started my day for years. I’m sure it’s just how many of you still start your days. I really didn’t think too much about it. I just did. It was instinctual and became my default. When you have really small, sweet smelling infant people there is no alternative. You’re on call. You can’t roll over and hit snooze.
Precious Freedom
Fast forward to kids that are a little bigger and can quietly get themselves out of bed. Or as I like to call it, Nirvana. If you are the mother of small babes, I PROMISE you that this will happen. These people will not always feel the need to wake you up the minute their little eyes open. They will quietly and sneakily leave their tiny little beds and you will never know. I don’t know what they do downstairs before I wake. I imagine that they’re watching a show, playing video games and eating food I normally wouldn’t allow. But you know what? I don’t care, because I’m ASLEEP. They could be running an illegal card game down there for all I care as long as they don’t wake me up. They seem to figure this out quickly. They’re no dummies. The three noisiest children on the planet are quiet as mice during the magic morning hours when they’re awake without a parent on active duty.
So, infancy is over sleep has been restored and I’m living my best life. Why would I choose, of my own free will, to get up earlier than absolutely necessary? I know, it seems crazy. I have wanted this sleep for so many years. I have literally prayed for babies to sleep through the night, why would I give it up on purpose?
Why Would I Do This To Myself?
I guess the answer is peer pressure. I am fortunate enough to be a part of a community that recommends different personal development books. I’d already read a lot of them and liked them, so when the next book was Miracle Morning, by Hal Enrod, I checked it out. I looked into it for approximately six minutes until I realized that this joker was suggesting that you get up an hour earlier EVERY day and establish a morning process. That was his miracle. I thought, thanks, but no thanks, Hal. You morning people are great, and I appreciate you, but… namaste in bed. But, then everyone in the group kept reading it and kept talking about how it changed their days, their lives, their skin–OK, I made the last one up, but you get it– people were really into it.
In an effort to keep an open mind, I joined the upcoming online book club that was going to tackle it. So, I began reading it with a not-so open mind. I figured that I would read it and be the one person in the group for whom this process just didn’t work. I liked all of his ideas and his process, I just couldn’t get over the hour. I needed that hour, nay, I’d worked and prayed for that hour. Very reluctantly, I set my alarm for 5:00 a.m. to try this hocus pocus. I did not spring out of bed, I had no life-changing epiphanies, I struggled through the first few days. See? I knew it!
Then somewhere around week two or three something crazy happened. I slept through my alarm and woke up at 5:30 a.m. and I was mad. Mad because I’d missed thirty minutes of my time. You see, the wonder of being awake an hour before anyone else in your home is that you have an entire hour to yourself. Like, to think thoughts that only pertain to you. You get to think about what you want your day to look like, plan out how you’re going to get your promotion, visualize your next macramé project—whatever you decide to think about. I’m willing to bet that this doesn’t happen on a regular basis for most of us. Sure, maybe once or twice a week you get a minute for reflection. Sometimes on vacations or birthdays or anniversaries you think about bigger picture ideas, but do you do it every day? I didn’t, but I do now.
Surprise!
I realized that this hour became something I really enjoyed, something I’d fight for, something I would give up sleep for! No one was more surprised than me. I couldn’t believe that I was finding all of this hype to be sort of… true. The hour made me feel better. It made me feel like more of an individual person. It gave me time to think about and tackle things that I’d always wanted to, but “never had time” for before. What I realized is the hour was a gift to myself. But, if I wanted it, I’d have to make it happen.
It also made me nicer. I paid attention and realized that I was calmer and in a better mood on the days when I gave myself the hour. Was I tired? Sure, but I got used to the new routine and just went to bed a little earlier (which I probably should’ve been doing anyway). Surprisingly, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The extra hour made me feel like I had more time in my day even though I was essentially keeping the same hours.
All You
Even with the best plans and intentions, when you’re a mother once your family’s day starts, you’re on. Sure, you can work, be social–it’s not like you sit around staring at your children. What I mean is you are “mom” the minute the first person wakes up, you’re clocked in. In this magical morning hour or half-hour or twenty minutes, you get to be just you. It sounds so crazy, but there are not many moments that you’re afforded this luxury in the middle of raising kids and having a life.
So, am I officially a morning person? I wouldn’t go that far. I still love my sleep, but I’ve come to realize that I love my hour more. I won’t lie and tell you that this hour takes place three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. It doesn’t. Sometimes life gets in the way, but more often than not, I try to start my day a little earlier than my people. It’s a purely selfish act. Some days it just gives me the opportunity to read and think; other days it makes me feel like a rock star. But it always reminds me that I’m in there. Before I’m someone’s daughter/partner/mom/friend I’m my own person with my own private ideas and goals. So now I start my day with this version of myself. She’s actually pretty cool, she comes up with some great ideas, she learns something about herself almost every day and she has never once wished she stayed in bed.
A few weeks ago, two out of my three children had math tests. Math is not my jam, which is probably why you’re reading my words instead of watching me solve equations on YouTube—which incidentally, is completely awesome and these kids have NO idea how lucky they are that the interweb will literally answer any question you ask of it—but, as usual, I digress. So, my kids are getting ready to take their tests and because I want to feel helpful; I give them words of advice and encouragement. It’s was my oldest and my youngest so the arithmetic that they’re attempting and their mind set is completely different, but I found myself telling them both the exact same thing. “Believe that you can do it, know that you’ve done everything necessary to prepare, don’t pay any attention to anyone around you—don’t compare, go slowly and be the last one done.”
After doling out this advice twice in one week it occurred to me that maybe I should actually listen to it myself. You see, like many of us, I’ve been struggling with trying to achieve goals, figuring out all about the “what’s next?” for me personally and professionally. And, guess what? It’s frustrating. It’s painfully slow. It is not going exactly how I planned—it’s kind of like taking a math test.
In this little ah-ha moment I realized I should probably take some of my own advice. I was talking about math, but couldn’t this be applied to achieving my own big girl goals? I believe whole-heartedly in what I told my kids.
Believe in yourself. You have to believe in yourself and that belief sometimes requires blind faith in yourself. You have to just “know” that you can do it. You have to remind yourself that you’ve proven yourself over and over again. You rocked your last presentation at work, you’ve completed a half-marathon, you taught small people how to use the bathroom (mostly—if you have boys, I feel like this is an ongoing job.) You manage your life along with the lives of several other people on a daily basis. You’ve done a lot of things successfully.
Know that you’ve done everything necessary to prepare. At some point, like my pal Elsa, you have to let it go. Now, don’t get me wrong you have to do the work. Sometimes you have to do a lot of work with little or no tangible results. But you have to believe that all of the time that you put in will eventually lead to your goal. You showed up, you did all of the things, sometimes that has to be enough. You have to have faith that the path you’re on is the right one, even if it seems to be taking a very long detour.
Don’t pay attention to anyone around you—don’t compare. This one is hard. I totally remember the feeling of sitting in math class and watching people get up to turn their tests in while I was still not even half-way finished. Which immediately prompted a feeling of panic and uncertainty. Because, surely if they have already completed it—I must be way behind. Now, thanks to being a grown up and the wonders of technology I can get this exact same feeling anytime I’d like by scrolling through social media. Awesome! But, let’s be honest, this is on me. Social media is an amazing tool, it allows people to stay connected, gives you amazing ideas about how to decorate your living room or make a cake that looks like an animal—this is all good stuff. Where I (or maybe you too?) mess it up is in the comparison part. One of my favorite sayings is “comparison is the death of happiness,” because it’s TRUE. It’s so true and I say it all of the time. My kids have started finishing the statement for me (sometimes with an eye roll, but at least they’re listening a little). That doesn’t mean it’s not hard. It’s hard to be struggling with running a mile and watch people completing their fourth marathon. It’s difficult to build a business that is barely bringing in any revenue and see a competitor killing it. It’s hard, but again, what we see here is our choice. Maybe we should be inspired by these people? If they can do it, surely, we can too? And, more importantly, maybe we should stop comparing at all? It’s literally one of the dumbest things we do as humans. There is no way to accurately compare people because people are such complex beings that there is almost NOTHING similar about them.
Just think about your average day. No one on the planet earth woke up with the same partner as you, the same set of kiddos, the same childhood memories. No one is going to have the same agenda, the same thoughts, the same goals. There is LITERALLY no one like you. How can you possibly compare things that are not alike? There’s so much math wisdom circling around here, I can hardly stand it!
Go slowly and be the last one done. We live in such an accelerated state and time is truly one of the greatest commodities. That doesn’t mean we have to rush everywhere. OK, so we probably are legitimately rushing a lot of places. That’s usually because someone can’t find a shoe (why is only one shoe always missing?) or a little person has realized they HAVE to go to the bathroom as we’re getting in the car or a teenager has suddenly fallen deaf and just “didn’t hear you” screaming “let’s go!” for the last twenty minutes. But I mean rushing in more of the metaphoric sense. It’s pretty hard to rush toward a goal. Most everything that you achieve is built. It’s a process, one that you sometimes don’t recognize until it’s complete. Give yourself the gift of time. You don’t get a prize for being the first one done with life.
Listen to yourself. Listen to the things you’re telling your kids to make them better, kinder people. Does any of that apply to you in your life? Listen to yourself when you tell them to focus on what matters and believe that they can. How are you doing with that? I think I will start listening to myself. I’m pretty sure my kids are only listening seventy percent of the time at best, so someone should benefit from all of my sage wisdom.