What Gives?

Perfectionist:  a person who is displeased by anything that does not meet very high standards

I'm a perfectionist.  I get it from my mom.  My perfectionism is pretty mild by her standards but I'm a perfectionist just the same.  Nothing is ever good enough for me.  I am always striving to do better, to be better.  It's exhausting.  

I thought I'd actually improved over the years.  My house does not have to be spotless anymore. I can leave home without showering or putting on makeup (with two small kids, I'd never get out of the house otherwise). I no longer feel the need to scrub the baseboards before my mother comes to visit.  In reality, though, I haven't become less of a perfectionist; I've just focused my high standards elsewhere - meal planning, couponing, cooking, mothering.

Since my post entitled sMOTHERed my husband has been graciously trying to help me find some rest and rejuvenation.  It's nothing he didn't know already, but I think seeing my feelings of exhaustion written out like that made what I'm going through all the more real for him.  So today he comes home from church (I've been staying home on Sundays for some much-needed alone time) and tells me that they talked about resting; that in today's fast-paced society, we often can't keep up a sustainable pace without rest.  

So he asks me what is one thing I see him doing that is not sustainable at the pace at which he's going.  That's easy: his job.  

Next, he asks me what is one thing I'm doing that is not sustainable.  I know the answer, but I don't want to utter it aloud so I ask him to tell me: trying to be a perfect mother.  

YOWZA!!  He hit that nail on the head.  Have I told you how brilliant and my husband is?  Well, I don't always appreciate it.  

"You've got to let something go, Renee" he tells me.  "You can't sustain this pace anymore."

He's right.  He's totally right.  But here's the rub:  

When you're a perfectionist, it seems like there's nothing you're able to let go of.  If you're not going to do it perfectly, then you might as well not do it at all.  So what gives?

Do I stop planning tasty, healthy, economical meals for my family and purchase a bunch of frozen convenience meals instead?  This would go against our goal of eating less processed food.

Do I stop spending hours each week matching grocery sale adds to coupons in order to get the most groceries for our money?  Nope.  Our budget just doesn't allow for that.

Do I stop scouring Pinterest for ideas and tips to add to my ongoing spreadsheet for our upcoming Disney vacation?  What if I miss something that could make or break our time there?  

There's never a good answer for me.  I know it's ridiculous and I know that if I don't let something go right now, I'm going to implode (that's probably why I'm lying in bed right now nursing a cold).      

The essential message about rest is this:  

Your life moves to a better place when you move at a sustainable pace. 

I want my life to move to a better place.  I want to feel happier and calmer and more rested.  And the universe has just helped me take a baby step in that direction.  While I'm in bed sick, my husband is in charge.  He's deciding what to cook; he's deciding when to clean up; he's deciding how to entertain the kids.  It's not at ALL how I would do it, but you know what?  I'm finding myself able to look the other way and enjoy the bigger gift he's giving me.

The gift of rest.  

Encouragement

Just when you think you can't take anymore, God sends you a message to carry on.  Watch this video of sweet little Joel and his amazingly strong mom.  If she can do it, so can I.  

Keep your tissues handy!

sMOTHERed

I've been finding myself drawn to my bed a lot lately - not wanting to get up in the morning, napping during the day, spending my alone time watching TV or surfing the web from the comfort of my mattress.  This behavior can only mean one thing:  I've got emotions that want to come out and I don't want to deal with them. 

I absolutely HATE feeling my emotions and I'll do just about anything to stuff them down.  My preferred methods of stuffing are eating and curling up in my bed under a thick layer of blankets.  I've been doing the latter for a couple of weeks now.  

I started this blog as a way of helping myself get in touch with my emotions - a diary of sorts.  It's my accountability partner.  The plan is that when I feel the slightest twinge of anger or sadness or guilt or despair, I write about it.  But sometimes, I push those feelings so far down that I don't even recognize they're there.  That is, until they come bubbling up to the surface.

Yesterday, they came bubbling up in the form of anger.  

My daughter woke up with what appeared to be a sinus infection, so I planned to keep her home from school and take her to the doctor at 8:00 am.  In the 45-minutes before we left the house, I had to feed my children, help them get dressed, clean up the kitchen, get myself dressed and pile us all in the car.  There was no time for coffee or food for myself.  By the time we got home from the doctor's office and pharmacy, it was 10:00 am and I was pretty cranky.  I just wanted to sit down with my latte and have some breakfast.  But no; the kids were ready for a snack and my daughter wanted tea with honey and they couldn't find the TV remote and I had to put away some groceries and the dishwasher needed to be emptied.  The more I told them to wait the more impatient my kids got until I explained (read: yelled) that I wasn't doing anything else for them until I had a chance to have my coffee and egg sandwich.  I was angry the rest of the day.

I know you moms can relate to this.  

I've been doing the stay-at-home mom thing for the past 6 years.  It's a job I have truly enjoyed, but it has been one of the hardest jobs I have ever done in my entire life.  It comes with very little time off and even fewer vacations.  There are no sick days and I don't get paid.  Don't even get benefits.  The hours are long and I don't get enough time to myself.  Crazy, huh?  Who would take a job like that?  

But being a stay-at-home mom does have its benefits, the biggest of which is that I get to mold and shape and discover more about these two little beings of mine every day.  

But I've never really been one to focus much on the positive.  And right now I really want to quit this job.  I'm exhausted all the time, I've completely lost touch with who I am and what I enjoy.  When I do have alone time, I have no idea what to do with myself so I just fill the hours with errands, emails, and naps.  I have lost my sense of self.  I have lost my passion.  Every day just runs into the next.  More giving of myself until there is nothing left.  I feel like an empty shell of a person.  If I have to give one more thing to one more person I'm going to scream!

My friends will all tell you that I am a fabulous mom - creative and caring and patient.  And, yes, all of that is true.  But it's taking everything I have to be that way.  When do I get something for me?

I should be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  My kids are 6 and 3.  One is in Kindergarten and the other in preschool 2-3 mornings a week.  I actually have alone time during the day for the first time in six years.  It should start to feel easier, shouldn't it?  Aren't I supposed to start feeling more refreshed?  Instead, I feel smothered; like someone's holding a pillow over my head and it's hard to breathe.  

As any good mom would tell you, I would do anything for my children and raising them has been the best thing I have ever done.  They have helped me to grow in so many ways.  I feel incredible guilt for even uttering these feelings of despair.  

But that's what I am - desperate.  I am desperate to pry that pillow off of my face.  Desperate to take a breath.  Desperate to be free.  But I have no idea how to get there.  So, for now, I'm just going to focus on getting out of bed.  

Courage #2

This past weekend, we attended our first elementary school dance together as a family.  My daughter, who is in Kindergarten, informed me about this dance weeks before the flyers came home.  "It's going to be a decade dance, Mama!  You have to dress like you're from a decade in history.  I want to dress like the 1920's!  I want to be a flapper girl!"  She's six.  How does she even know about flappers?  But her enthusiasm was contagious and one weekend we found ourselves in every department of Target searching for the perfect accessories.  

My goal was to look authentic while spending as little money as possible - this was a two-hour school dance, after all.  For my daughter, we found two purple sequined skirts on the clearance rack.  We used one for her top, gluing on purple ribbon for straps, and one for the bottom.  We added black tights and dress shoes, a purple boa, some gold beads tied in a knot, and a black feathered headband.  Her purse was a clutch.  She was in heaven!  The boys were easy. My 3-year-old wore a white dress shirt with a built in vest and bow tie, jeans, and a baby blue fedora.  My husband wore a shirt and tie along with a fedora as well.  They were the cutest gangsters I've ever seen.  

And then there was me.  I went back and forth and back and forth and back and forth about what to wear.  Trying on outfits for a costume party is akin to shopping for swimsuits.  I finally decided to simply focus on the accessories.  So I wore a black knit dress with black leggings and flats and jazzed it up with a hot pink feathered fascinator and wildly fun boa.  I was feeling good.  That is, until I got there.

I looked around and I realized that we were the only parents in the room in costume.  

Let me say that again.

WE WERE THE ONLY PARENTS IN THE ROOM IN COSTUME!  

Unbelievable.  

When you're someone who doesn't feel comfortable in their own skin, it's hard to get dressed up and parade yourself in front of a group of people you don't know.  It's very hard.  But when you are the only one dressed up in the entire gymnasium?  It's brutal.  I felt like I was at my own 8th grade dance - all gawky and shy - and wanted to hide under the table.  

But then, yet again, I saw my daughter.  

She was glowing in her purple sequins and had a smile a mile wide.  I wanted to bottle that girl up and drink her down so that I could feel a tiny bit of what she was feeling - free, uninhibited, joy.  She wasn't worried about her costume, or her body, or her lack of anything.  She was just having fun without a care in the world.  

I scanned the gym and realized that not only were the parents in their everyday clothes, they were all sitting on chairs lining the perimeter of the room.  What?  This is an elementary school dance, not a funeral.  Get up, damn it!  Go dance with your kids.

And so I did.  Well, first I asked my daughter if she wanted to me to dance with her and then I did.  And we danced the night away - my fabulous 1920's family and me.  We laughed and jumped and whooped and hollered until the kids were so tired they were begging to go home.  

That, my friends, took some courage.  Not the kind of courage required to don a bathing suit in the middle of winter, but courage nonetheless. 

 And you know what?  It felt fabulous!