We're rocking it

“How do you do it?”  The question came from across the table during a lunch break at work.  I paused from blowing the steam off my leftovers to address my friend intelligently:  “Huh?”  “How do you have time to cook dinner every night?” she went on.  “I mean, along with everything else?”  I looked down at the forkful of last night’s meal suspended in my hand.  “This?” I replied.  “This is just…life.”    I didn’t know how else to answer.  If there was one person who, in my mind, was juggling an impossibly full plate, it was the woman sitting across from me.  How in the world could she ask me that question?  Didn’t she realize how amazing she was?

I started thinking through the achievements of some of my friends.  The questions came rapidly and with the same consistent theme.  How does she…?

…work full time and take care of 2 (3, 4…) babies?

…stay at home with her kids and find all those fun family activities to keep them busy?

…work multiple jobs?

…take care of her kids herself?

…find time to train for a marathon?

…manage completing her master’s degree while working?

…look so fresh and energetic every day when I know she has a newborn at home?

…always seem to be working on another professional designation?

…get all those books read?

…start her own business?

I drew two conclusions from this.  1) I know some downright talented and brilliant women, and that is an honor.  2) It’s time we start giving ourselves some credit.  Chances are someone else is impressed with your life.  To someone else you look like you have it all together.  As you go through the motions of your day, distracted by the thought of the unfolded laundry at home, someone else is admiring your ability to get things done.  When you’re struggling to remember what you needed to add to the grocery list, someone is in awe of your organizational skills.  And despite the turmoil you felt just trying to get out of the door this morning, someone really liked the outfit you chose.

How could these perceptions be so different?  How is it that when I don’t feel like I’m doing enough, a friend can catch me completely off-guard by saying with simple conviction, “You do so much.”   Is it possible that the version of ourselves we present to the world is so different from the harsh reality of our true broken lives?  I don’t think so.  Instead, it’s just that we cut others so much more slack than we give ourselves.  We set our own bar so high and assume everyone around us is jumping over it, when in reality they’re just trying to survive, too.  People who spend a lot of time with us – family and close friends – really do know us, so we should trust them when they say we’re knocking it out of the park.

It’s time I pause and give myself the occasional pat on the back for the things I do well.  I choose to spend my time doing things that I value for myself and my family.  The choices we all make in that same effort are unique, which gives us a great opportunity to be proud of one another.  And at the same time, I need to give myself grace for those other things that can creep in and make me feel like I’m failing.  So I don’t get down on my hands and knees and scrub my kitchen floor every week like my grandma always did.  My windows have fingerprints on them, and my closet needs to be organized.  So what?  I can admire my neighbor’s shiny windows, and she can compliment my flower pots (if spring ever arrives!).   

No matter who you are, you’re doing something that someone else respects and admires.  There is someone looking at your life and saying, “How do they…?”  So keep doing it.  We all need to be encouraged by the successes of one another, and in some cases it may give us the confidence to try something new ourselves.

And equally as important as rocking what you do well, tell someone else when they’re rocking it, too.  We all need to hear it.  I was having an incredibly blah day when my dear friend’s amazement at my ability to steam broccoli turned it around.  So go ahead, tell that co-worker or friend that she’s doing a great job at life, that her children are well behaved, or just that you love her sweater or she got her eyeliner on straight.  We need each other to help point out the small victories worth celebrating.  I made dinner last night, and I’m eating it again for lunch today.  And I’m proud of that.

Stay here

“Mommy, stay here.”  These words rise sweetly and tentatively from a tiny voice as I prepare to depart his room after the bedtime routine has concluded.  We’ve already read “one more story” and sung “one more song,” and it really is time for him to go to sleep.  Not to mention that I inevitably need to clean up the kitchen, fold the laundry, or get my laptop back out to finish up some work.  However, there is something undeniably appealing about being needed, and there is nothing that can compare to the simple and pure way a child needs his mommy.  Either that or I’m a total softie, because he gets me every time.

I just need you to stay here.  I am instantly taken back to my early childhood when I often made the same request of my mother.  I would wake up in the night after a bad dream or during a thunderstorm and rouse that poor woman from her well-earned rest.  I wanted to go back to my bed where it was comfortable and warm, but I needed her to be there, too.  Somehow her very presence brought me such comfort that it could overcome my fears and allow me to drift back to sleep.  The monsters seemed less real, the thunder more distant, as long as she was sitting next to my bed.  My memories of these instances are somewhat hazy at this point, but I do remember one thing very clearly – the way my mother acted.  She never lost patience with me.  She never questioned my fear or made me feel silly for being afraid.  She never complained about being tired or needing sleep.  She sat with me in the dark, talking if I wanted to talk, or completing an investigation of the first floor if I requested to know for sure that no one had broken in.  She was affirming and comforting, and most importantly she was there.

Now that I am a mother myself, one thing has become abundantly clear to me: my mother is a saint.  I learn more and more each day through experiences I have with my son what she really did for me, and I am absolutely floored.  It first hit me during the early weeks when I was up every two hours for feedings and feeling a sense of helplessness that went way beyond sleep deprivation.  I assumed I must be doing something wrong – there was simply no way it was this hard.  Countless women before me couldn’t have done this and survived.  When my mom came to visit for a few days just after my son was born, I remember looking to her pleadingly with tears in my eyes.  She simply smiled knowingly and reassured me, “It gets better.” 

And so she was right.  It continues to get better, and so much harder too.  I know I’m just in the beginning stages, and I will have many more sleepless nights ahead of me.  But I now understand why my mother never reprimanded me for being needy or focused on her own needs.  It didn’t occur to her.  She was my mom, and it was her job to comfort me like no one else could.  There is joy and affirmation in that responsibility, and I love it.  I cannot begin to repay my mom for the ways she cared for me as a child.  Instead, I will live my appreciation by following the example she set with my own family.  I pledge to always be there when my son needs me. To scare away nightmares and cuddle during a storm.  To stock up on nightlights and stuffed animals.  To provide comfort when he’s sick.  To pack lunches and volunteer for room parties.  To help with homework and cheer him on at the game.  And when he requests it, I will happily lie next to him until he falls asleep.  It’s a small price to pay to be someone’s hero.

No more sick days

I had a stomach bug last week that hit me hard, but thankfully, the immediate impact seemed to be fairly short-lived.  I was quickly on to a couple days of crackers and toast until I could get my head around the idea of eating an actual meal. As I was propped up in bed in a semi-conscious state praying for relief I discovered that request was intermingled with an even more fervent one: “Please don’t let my husband or son get this.”  It’s then that it occurred to me: I will never have another sick day again. 

 

Sure, I stayed home from work the next day to rest, recover, and hopefully get something in my system.  But say the words “sick day,” and my mind conjures images from my childhood of laying on the couch all day watching re-runs of Saved by the Bell while my loving mother tried to keep me hydrated.  But that’s not my reality anymore.  A sacrifice of being in a committed relationship and/or being a parent is that you are never the first person in your mind.  (And if you are, you’re probably doing it wrong.)  I didn’t make some valiant and selfless decision that I would behave this way and thereby earn  human of the year recognition, it just happens naturally when you love someone.  There are people in all our lives we would take a bullet for, or a stomach bug, and consider it a privilege.

 

So inevitably, I found myself mentally cataloguing all the items I had come into contact with in the last 24 hours – clothing, surfaces, sheets, blankets.  Before I knew it, my head was lifted from the couch and I was doing internet  searches to the tune of “how to prevent spreading the stomach bug,” and “how to kill norovirus.”  Even stronger than my disdain for being sick myself was the dreadful thought of a) cleaning up after and comforting a 2-year-old who wouldn’t know what hit him, or b) losing my partner in crime to the same bout of illness that had rendered me useless to him the night before.  I actually find the image humorous – me, laying on the couch in a mismatched collection of pajama pieces, sweatshirts, and blankets, diligently researching and devising a plan to conquer this bug on behalf of the men of my household.  Clearly, a woman with a greasy ponytail donning a delightful mix of fleece and flannel must be taken seriously.

 

First on my list: wash all sheets, blankets, and clothing in the sanitary cycle on the washer and the hottest dryer setting they can stand.  Mind you, these are by far the longest cycles our beloved washer/dryer duo has to offer, so I had plenty of time to calculate my next move.  But I couldn’t do anything else before washing my hands.  And singing the alphabet while I was doing it, because that’s how long the website said it would take to kill the germs.  Oh, and as I’m walking through the kitchen to finally pour my pitiful self some ginger ale, I notice the dishwasher needs to be emptied.  If I wash my hands for long enough I’m sure it’s okay for me to get that minor chore out of the way as well.  Scrub, scrub, “A, B, C, D….”

 

It’s now time for me to rest from this exertion and try a few saltines.  But of course I can’t just sit there – there has to be something else I could be getting done.  Enter laptop.  One and a half hours later I’m caught up on email and put out a few minor work fires (smolders, really).  I then remember I have an insurance designation exam coming up in a couple weeks, so it’s probably time to crack that book.  What better time to do it than when I’m destitute in my living room with nothing else to do but wash my hands all day.  After some quality time reading up on defined benefit pension plans, the laundry needs my attention again so I’m up and about, starting another load (did I use both the living room throws last night, or just one?  Better safe than sorry…). 

 

While I’m up, I might as well get to work on the rest of the cleaning plan I had devised in my early morning strategy session.  Surely the time I spent working and studying was sufficient rest for a body running on zero fuel and a minor intake of clear liquids.  At some point I have a hazy notion that I should perhaps be napping, but it’s quickly dismissed when I remind myself all the sheets and blankets will be tied up in the wash/rinse/steam/dry cycles for the next three hours.  So I tackle the bathrooms – sinks, toilets, floors, rugs.  I empty the garbage and wipe down every surface I can think of.  Should I eat some toast or something?  Nah, maybe after I steam mop the floors.  Oh, and what’s for dinner?  I have no appetite, but the guys will want to eat.  I have some chicken in the fridge I can pre-cook so we can turn it into something later on.  I put away my mop and head to the sink to sing the alphabet before I think about touching anyone else’s food.

 

So at the end of the day when the men of my household return, I have done my best to create a germ-free sanctuary.  Will they get sick?  Probably (sigh).  I sincerely hope not, but I’m realistic about our chances.  I have done everything I can to protect them, which is really what we all do for those we love each and every day.  I am a wife.  I am a mother.  I don’t take sick days.  And man I need some hand lotion.

Spiritual Peeling

My son loves peeling oranges.  What I really mean by that is the mere sight of a box of clementines in the pantry gives him the giggles.  Giggles that lead to an excited mix of jumping and dancing along with a joyful plea, “Oranges, please!  I peel it!”  He has always loved oranges, but now that he can take on a reasonable portion of the peeling himself, it’s a whole new world. 

I started to wonder what exactly makes peeling an orange so exciting.  And it’s not just peeling oranges.  Putting his milk back in the refrigerator, helping to stir dinner on the stove, putting his socks on – all of these things give him a jolt of pleasure that’s written all over his face.  These are relatively simple tasks we take for granted (until a 2-year-old demands to help, thereby making the chore take three times as long), so on the surface I couldn’t see the joy in them at all. 

On the other hand, if it was all brand new to me I might have a different perspective.  If I had to sit by and watch someone else peel my oranges for a countless string of days, I would probably feel downright giddy about doing it myself.  My son is so eager to learn, and he relishes in his ever-growing independence.  So if I stop and think about it, it really makes perfect sense – if I could learn to do ten new things every day and begin to master them, that would be exciting!  (Oh if only that period of rapid brain development repeated itself later in life...)

Pure and simple: he’s grateful that he has the ability to peel an orange.  Grateful and filled with such a sweet and innocent joy that it comes out of him in giggles and hops.  Wow.  I could take a cue from that.  Instead of thinking ahead to my first meeting on my way into work, I could occasionally just pause and be grateful for a job I love.  And in the midst of stressing over dinner plans and grocery lists, I can be extremely thankful that we have the ability to provide nutritious food for our family.  

I am at once humbled and struck by the irony that a little bundle of energy in the form of a child has continually reminded me to slow down.  When my son was just a few weeks old and nursing with his tiny hands folded on his chest, I imagined he was offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving.  And now, he’s outwardly expressing his gratitude through the joy he finds in peeling an orange. 

God, grant me the wisdom of a 2-year-old.