Now I reread that sentence and mentally insert “which is impossible” to the end of it. That’s the only way the sentence can be consistently true. I strive for the impossible.
I love my family and friends passionately. I am an active member of my communities. And yet it’s delusional to tell myself that I can satisfy every social expectation or perfectly balance any crowd situation. Geeze.
Tip of the day: Setting yourself up for failure is not the way to avoid depression.
So now, for the hundredth time, I acknowledge my powerlessness to make everyone happy and content, and then I realize that the cost of trying to achieve this results in one person almost always feeling unhappy when all is said and done: Me.
And I know it’s not all about me. My awesome parents made sure, in a loving and firm way, that I learned that from a young age that I wasn’t the center of the universe. Being a mother to a beautiful eight month old baby boy has been living exercise in giving nearly all my hours to another being.
So I strive to be an awesome mom and join mommy groups and visit with friends and fill my life with good things, but I struggle to write and push my creative projects into the light at anything more than a snail’s pace. The natural result of me in that kind of habitat: I’m eating chocolate by the handful, having no energy in the evenings except to lay in front of the TV, and whining through most of my conversations with anyone who will listen.
I talked to my husband about this. We planned the start of a rescue. We checked in with our budget. I told him how much I need time to myself. Just a few hours. We discussed the realities of having someone watch our son. I don’t have a detailed plan yet, but I am reminding myself that “figuring this out” is a series of trial and error, not a “get it right the first time or you’re out” kind of business.
I’m writing this post at my kitchen table listening to my son snooze through the baby monitor. But I’m writing. I’m fighting for this part of me that I honestly can’t just let die. I will be a mom and a writer. I can’t surrender my writing and I can’t surrender my son and I don’t instantly become “bad” at one when I add the other to my plate. I’m not slacking as a mom just because I want to write.
Patience and grace. I’ll need piles of this.
I will have to reorder my schedule and my priorities once again. I don’t know what’s getting cut and what’s getting set in stone, but it’s about to happen. I’m gonna fight.