True Lies of Motherhood (or Womanhood?)

It's Thursday, a writing day.  Typically I drop the kids off at 9:30 (at their preschool), head to my favorite writing spot, and write for at least two hours.  This is my Tuesday/Thursday routine - the only time, truth be told, that I focus exclusively on writing.  The rest of my days and weeks are filled with kids, home, husband, general household stuff.

This week I've had a hard time getting back into the swing of things post-holiday.  My house is back together, but I still feel a little upside-down.  Graciously, I've felt the Holy Spirit prompt me to use Tuesday & Thursday to rest this week.  There has been no pressure to be productive.  No pressure from Him, anyway.

Here's how my day has gone today:

• 6:20 a.m. up with my youngest
• 7:00 a.m. both kids up and eating breakfast; husband wakes up to help
• 7:15 a.m. husband is changing diaper of oldest while youngest eats and I make lunches
• 7:30 a.m. husband sits with oldest as he starts breakfast; I load youngest into the car along with everything we need for school later - we head off for our weekly blood draw
• 8:10 a.m. we finally arrive at the lab (across town in rush hour traffic) for our blood draw
• 8:40 a.m. we leave for home, making my husband late - argh!
• 8:40-9 a.m. call Lily's doctors (two of them) regarding certain testing; call my dog's Vet to discuss the two tumors we found in his mouth last week; return a friend's phone call
• 9:00 a.m. arrive home, load oldest into car, double-check 'provisions', kiss husband goodbye, head to school
• 9:15 a.m. stop by Starbuck's on the way to school to treat myself to a hot chocolate
• 9:30 a.m. drop kids at school; hugs and kisses all around
• 9:45 a.m. back at home, I ask God how to order my time...there's a lot to do.  I start the laundry while thinking.  I put away stray toys while thinking.  I make beds while thinking.
• 10 a.m. brief Quiet Time
• 10:15-11 a.m. pay bills, balance our budget, return emails, keep laundry going
• 11-12 eat an early lunch, bake brownies, continue laundry, clean kitchen, research a property we're trying to sell
• 12 noon I pick up where I left off with regard to researching how, when, where to submit the four finished picture books I currently have in my reservoir
• 12:30 I can't resist actually writing, just a little, as I think in my head..."I'm a sloth...I've done nothing today.  Am I dishonoring my husband by making him work so I can sit around and be a kept woman?"
• 12:35 p.m. I start this blog post, laughing at myself and wondering how many of you can relate to these thoughts

"Kept" woman?  If I stop and think, I never sit around and do nothing.  Even if I'm watching TV with my husband, I'm also going through the mail, running the dishes, keeping the laundry going (a never-ending task), reading a book, or writing in my journal (often I do more than one of those things at once).  How many of you, my female friends, are exactly like this?  How often are you still?  And if you ever are, how guilty do you feel about it?

This week I've been struck several times by how fleshy I am.  I don't feel condemned - not at all.  Instead, I feel sad.  The moments where I've witnessed my sinful nature have been full of regret and desire for change.  I know I can do nothing to change myself.  This must be a work of the Holy Spirit; He must engage my flesh and transform it into His image.  My job is to allow Him.

I wonder how much more this might happen if I actually chose to be still?  (Psalm 46:10)  I wonder how I would be transformed if I ceased to indulge in guilt and self-reprimanding, if I stopped acting as my own judge.  All morning long I've been plagued by the ghost of the thought: "you're not good enough.  You need to do more, be more."  The thought was not that clear, but that was the heart of it.  That's what is behind my need to feel productive, my fear of disappointing (in this case, my husband, by making his sacrifice seem like it's for naught).

The struggle is cliche.  It's been written about countless times, yet I still wanted to share.  I wanted to put it out there to say to all of my mommy, housewife, career women friends: you do enough.  You love, you inspire, you produce.  You are plenty good enough.  I'm not sure what else to say, other than: I hope these words speak to your heart.  I hope you feel the deep approval God has for you in them.  I hope you are encouraged, dear ones.  With love, Jenny

And the journey continues...

The second post in a series about being a newbie stay-at-home mom.

This is my first official day on the job.  For those of you read my last post, you know that I quit my job and wrapped things up last week.  Today, Monday, it's all-Mom, all-the-time.  Several of you have checked in to ask how it's going.  So I decided to post this update.  Here it is: the raw, unadulterated truth about living the dream life.

The day started with anxiety.  Again.  More dreams about not doing enough, not producing enough.  These dreams happened to be about my physical therapy workouts, but they echoed the theme from last week: not enough.  So much for the short-lived bliss from the day I left the office.  Now, during my first morning, I was struggling to hold my temper with my two-year-old, snapping at my husband in the process, and generally feeling overwhelmed at what to do next and how to do it. 

The breakfast routine started with physical therapy for my littlest one (she's dealing with a gross motor skills developmental delay), which completely stressed me out.  Lily screamed through her workout in general frustration at not being able to move the way she wants.  All the while Gunnar, her big brother, wanted to take her therapy toy and interrupt play with some play of his own.  Of course, these interruptions increased Lily's frustration which increased the screaming which decreased Mommy's patience threshold.  I thought to myself: I will pray a lot more now that I'm home full-time.

That was the first fifteen minutes.

After my husband helped me calm down, I corralled the kiddos for a trip to the gym.  Yes, that's right.  I had been on-the-clock for a whole hour before seeking refuge in the sanctum of Kids Club.  Don't judge me until you've stared down a one and two-year-old, thinking, "I'm supposed to entertain you for a full day?"  It's tougher than it sounds!

Kids Club was a success.  Both kids had fun and lasted the full hour-and-a-half.  I, meanwhile, was able to finish my morning pages* in the sauna (talk about multi-tasking), get in a long swim workout, and actually take a shower.  By myself.  In silence.

I finished a little early and decided to veg out for a few minutes.  Several minutes later, after flipping through a magazine I indulged in at the grocery store, I gathered my things and headed to Kids Club.  I glanced at the clock.  "Oh no.  How did I let twenty minutes go by?  I'm a horrible....  No, wait a minute, I am not a horrible mom.  I gave myself twenty minutes - twenty minutes.  Get over yourself.  You'll need a lot more than that if you're going to do this well.  And besides, your kids probably need the time away from you as much as you need non-productive down time."

All of this self-talk whizzed through my head on the short walk from locker room to Kids Club.  Self-talk happens a lot in my brain (I know - you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?).  In fact, hours later, it's still happening.  I'm quite sure the loving me hasn't won the back-and-forth with the harsh me yet.  I still feel guilty over that twenty minutes.

Anyway, we decided to treat ourselves after the gym.  Actually, I needed some carb's after my long swim, and I wanted to be able to give my kids a little focused attention.  We went to Einstein's and sat together.  No agenda, no timeline, just snacks and catching up.  I heard all about Gunnar's adventures at Kids Club and watched in fascination while Lily realized she could put her food inside Gunnar's empty milk bottle.  I was very impressed, as was she.  She squealed in delight every few minutes when another bite actually made it into the container.

When Lily began rubbing her eyes we headed home.  She fell asleep in the car and stayed asleep through the transfer.  Another opportunity to pour into Gunnar was presenting itself: I decided to keep him outside so that Lily could sleep in peace.  After pretending to wash his Gunnar-sized car, he decided we should wash Mommy's car.  I told him we didn't even have to pretend.  I mean, what's better than playing and getting stuff done at the same time.  I'm brilliant, I tell you!

Out came the buckets, brushes, and hose.  Everything went swimmingly for the first several minutes.  And then, I looked over to see a shivering two-year-old dripping wet and exclaiming that he needed to go potty.  "Okay," I said.  "Here I come, honey."  I ran over, pulled down his pants, and told him to pee in the yard (yes, the front yard).  I ran inside to get a towel only to hear a panicked "MOMMY!" come out of Gunnar's little mouth.  Racing back outside I screamed, "what's wrong?"  "I pooped," he calmly replied.

Oh.

Okay.

I ran over, checked out the scene, and asked if he was done.  "Yes, I'm done.  I need you to wipe me."  "Okay," I replied.  "Wait here and don't move.  I'll be right back with toilet paper."  Asking a two-year-old not to move is like asking the Titanic not to sink.  What was I thinking?

I came back outside only to find Gunnar rooted to the same spot - a miracle, I thought - but with a rather disconcerting look on his face.  He was clearly concentrating very hard.  And squeezing, holding something tightly.  But what?

"Mommy, my poop is waiting for you."  Huh?  I looked behind him to see one large log on the ground and another long and skinny one holding on for dear life between clenched cheeks. 

Yes, it took all I had not to laugh.

I won't go into the gritty clean-up details, but, needless to say, they involved a hose.  Fifteen minutes and several hand-washings later we all sat down for lunch together.  I called my husband to tell him about our little poop adventure.  He laughed as hard as I wanted to.

Deep breath.  Post-lunch signaled time for round two of Lily's physical therapy at-home workout.  I geared myself up for another melt-down.  It's a wonder how things don't always turn out the way you plan, and thank God for that.  It was perfect.

I calmly explained to Gunnar how he needed to help Lily, and he happily obliged.  I arranged the "workout" in such a way that they were playing together.  We even had an object lesson: when either child achieved a goal, however small, I taught them to clap for eachother because, as I explained, "in this family, we celebrate one another's accomplishments."  It was beautiful.  Truly, I say this without sarcasm.  I was having a great time and loved, absolutely loved, being able to be the one who gets to do this with these two precious children. 

So two poo-poo's, two physical therapy sessions, and one gym trip later, I'm wondering what made the difference between morning and midday?  Why did the second session go so much better?  I think it's a combination of factors, really. 

First, Mommy was calmer.  That always helps.  Second, both of my children had had their cups filled with concentrated Mommy-attention.  Third, and probably most important, I chose myself this morning.  Not because I didn't want to be with my children, but rather because I did.  I knew that I needed to get a little space to clear my head before I dove into our new routine, so I took it.  And that extra twenty minutes clearly has made all the difference.



*Morning Pages are a medicine prescribed by Julia Watts, author of The Artist's Way.  I highly recommend her book to everyone, artist or not.

New Season

The first in a series of musings from a newly-minted stay-at-home mom.

I quit my job yesterday. 

Actually, I quit my job two months, fourteen days, twenty-one hours and eight minutes ago.  I gave my boss such a long notice for two reasons: (1) to give her as much time as possible to make a transtitional plan; and (2) to give my husband and me as much time as possible to plan for our own transition.  You know, the oh-my-gosh-is-this-really-happening-can-we-make-it-work-I'm-so-excited-I-get-to-actually-be-a-stay-at-home-mom transition.

So, here I am, a newly-minted stay-at-home mom.  Now what?

Yesterday I was ecstatic.  I literally did a little dance when I got home (after putting the kids down of course).  The soundtrack in my head went something like this: "I'm so excited.  I'm so happy.  I'm so excited.  I'm so happy."  I had a goofy smile pasted on my face all day, even when my two-year-old threw a temper tantrum and my one-year-old couldn't nap through her teething pain.  My happiness was impenetrable.  I was living the dream.

And then, as it so often does, reality hit me like a baseball bat to the forehead.  I woke up today to anxiety dreams.  Anxiety dreams about a job I no longer have.  The lists of things to finish were racing through my subconscious head, spilling over into my conscious self as I opened my eyes in the dark.  Worry and fear began to choke the elation out of me.  I couldn't breathe.  What had I done?  I need that job.  I don't exist without it.  I need the stress to feel purpose.  I can't actually be happy, actually get what I want, actually just be - living in the moment and enjoying every minute.  My dreams don't get fulfilled; it doesn't work like that.  I have to work harder or I don't matter.  It is never enough.

I learned this way of thinking at my mother's knee.  Though she would whole-heartedly disagree with that statement, I believe it to be true.  She lives a martyr's life and subconsciously expects me to do the same.  You do what you have to, not what you want to, pretending that the should is the want, deluding yourself into a false sense of happiness.  If you're not worried, stressed, or overwhelmed then you're not really living.  You clearly aren't doing enough if you actually have space to enjoy, simply enjoy, what's happening around you. 

There is no time for living in that version of life.  No, that version involves racing forward at the speed of light moving so fast that you have no light by which to see at all.

I have to unlearn one way of living in order to live out of my heart.  It's not about her; she is not the enemy.  I am.  She did the best she could and taught me what she knew.  This is about me.  About me learning how to be me.  And refusing to give my life over to others.  Refusing to be the victim any longer.

I want to live a simpler life.  I want to cherish every moment with my children, not hear about them from their caregivers after an exhausting day in the rat race.  I want to lie on my back, watch the wind through the trees, take a deep breath, and pay attention to the feel of my son's hand in mine.  Without the noise that has lived inside my head for the past eleven years in the work world.  Without the constant fear that I'm not doing enough.  Without putting them on hold so that I can answer one more email, make one more phone call.

I want to make my life about what I want it to be about, listening to my deepest desires and choosing to make them important enough to fulfill.  Martyrdom be damned.  Being a martyr is self-indulgent bullshit.  It's not real love.  I know that love is sacrificial but you must first have a self to sacrifice.  Love your neighbor as yourself.  You can not love without self.

I quit my job yesterday.  I left behind one life to pursue another.  I have started a journey.  My journey.  For the first time in my life, I am doing exactly what I want to do and not what I think others expect of me.  It feels good.  It feels right.  And when I can get still enough to silence the anxious thoughts, it feels peaceful, hopeful, true.