Last night, I had a more-trying-than-usual time lulling my baby into slumber. I nursed her. I changed her diaper. I needlessly lotioned her silky skin. I sang my entire repertoire of lullabies. I rocked her. Then I nursed her again. And changed her again. And put a different outfit on her little limbs.
And finally, after a few hours, she submitted to the beckoning sheep who begged to be counted, left her best friend (a stuffed lamb, Lambchop) in the bouncy seat for the night, and collapsed in her crib, arms spread out wide, embracing ten whole hours of uninterrupted sleep.
As I crept out of her room, my husband looked at me while browsing the Internet.
“I’m going to bed,” I stated emphatically.
I forced myself to brush my teeth, wash my face, and apply ointments and creams in places I’ve never cared about moisturizing until motherhood took its toll on my appearance. I checked my email one last time, hoping neither of my professors had sent me a single note. I hopped on FaceBook briefly and glanced at my newsfeed.
The “Just Wheat” page I’d just created days before hovered on the left side of the screen, an annoying reminder to write, write, write.
These days, all I want to do is write. Honestly, I can’t get enough of it. And literally, I can’t get enough of it. I simply don’t have time to record every rumination that runs through my brain. So, as I take 30 minutes to type this post, bright pink post-its scream out potential topics on the bulletin board in front of me. But my priorities are family and graduate school.
Well, that’s not entirely true. While my family and graduate school are my top priorities right now, I seem to be incapable of simplicity and ease. If I finish all my schoolwork two weeks ahead of time, and take great care of my baby and love my husband well, it’s still not enough.
I’ve also decided to start jogging again, partly in an attempt to lose post-partum weight and partly to provide a break for myself each day from parenting responsibilities. And when my daughter sleeps or plays happily in her bouncy seat, if I’m not doing homework or working on my fitness (just ask Maggie, she’s my witness), I’m cleaning. Endlessly. I’m a bit anal about maintaining a tidy home. I’ve evolved into a much less maniacal housekeeper since having Maggie, but I confess that seeing dirt, dust, and dishes piled in the sink drives me absolutely bonkers. And I attempt to maintain two separate blogs, which I love to write for even though they have moved down on my priority list.
I don’t just do what’s required of me. I take on more than I have to. All the time, and I always have. Why can’t I just do as my mentor recommended, and list five items on my to-do list for the day? Why do I stretch five into ten? Or why, when I don’t complete all five tasks, do I fail to recognize that my baby refused to take decent naps all day, so my time was reprioritized? And even if I’m able to cross off all five items at the end of the day, why do I plop into bed at night feeling as if it wasn’t enough?
That I am not good enough?
Ah, the real root of the problem.
I’m afraid that I won’t be good enough. That I won’t graduate from graduate school with a 4.0 GPA. That I won’t parent my daughter in a way that’s conducive to joy, peace, health, spiritual fulfillment, and lifelong learning. That my guests will turn up their noses at the rings inside my toilet bowls. That it will take me longer than a year to lose this weight and that I will never look attractive again in my own eyes. That my husband will observe these obvious failures and revoke his love from me.
Not only are these fears irrational, for the most part, but even if they come to fruition, who cares? How important is it that I maintain a perfect GPA? If I graduate with two Bs on my transcript, I’ll still have accomplished the big-picture goal of earning my Master’s degree in English. How important is it that I manage to read daily to my daughter? Well, it’s important, but if I skip a day here and there, her brain will most likely not begin to atrophy. How important is it that my house pass the white glove test? Not at all.
What I’m afraid of—not being good enough, and not being loved—has roots that have attached themselves to the core of my being since childhood.
But I don’t have to allow my fears to dictate my actions.
My husband reminded me, as we discussed these very matters in a state of near-consciousness last night that I ought to just relax.
He is right.
I remember when I worked in a sales position, selling software and training opportunities to business owners and principal partners in a niche industry, that it felt so hard to get to work on time. My commute took 45 minutes, hauling tail while applying makeup during traffic jams, on good days. Barring any wrecks or hold-ups, I’d screech into the parking lot and lug myself into the building, gigantic mug of strong coffee in hand.
I felt as if all my co-workers should applaud. Congratulate me for choosing not to hit snooze more than once. Pat me on the back for deciding to show up at work rather than stop paying my bills and move back into my parents’ house and eat frozen dinners while listening to my parents give me advice on relationships. Offer me an attagirl for taking a shower, blow-drying my hair, and appearing decently well-kempt.
But they didn’t. Of course.
I once shared this fantasy of applause with the secretary at the office. She laughed. Then agreed with me and told me about her average morning which entailed waking her teenage son, getting his lazy butt out the door for school, starting her car in freezing temperature with no husband available to scrape off the windshield for her, and finally braving almost the same commute I battled daily.
“I should be applauding YOU!” I remarked.
When I relocated to my hometown, and returned to the realm of higher education, I shared this same fantasy with a really funny group of people who worked in an adjacent office. Recently, when I returned to campus for a “look at my adorable new baby” visit, I walked into the foyer of their office and immediately felt puzzled.
They were all clapping.
It took me a minute to realize that they were clapping for me. For showing up. On time. Clothed.
It made me laugh, but last night as I lay in bed, I wondered why we all don’t applaud ourselves. Daily. For whatever things we accomplish, no matter how minor they seem when we compare them to the books and albums published by our fellow alumni, the perfectly bleached bathrooms of our mothers-in-law, or the post-partum pictures of our incredibly thin friends.
Once a yoga instructor said something at the end of class which, I’ll admit, I scoffed at internally.
“Thank your body for what it was able to do for you today.”
Yada, yada, yada.
But maybe I will. Maybe I ought to apply those high school cheerleading skills to my own little life. Maybe I need to pat myself on the back when I submit an assignment, wrestle myself into my sports bra in order to go jogging in 45-degree weather, or successfully remove humungous boogers from my baby’s nostrils.
Maybe I ought to thank God for what I’m able to do today.