“The dance of renewal, the dance that made the world, was always danced at the edge of things, on the brink, on the foggy coast.”
Hey everyone. Y’all ok over there? Reading my last post, I realized that we’re coming up on two years of Covid. It has felt like 5. I don’t share this shock and awe that Penn is two because this time has felt like a decade. Isn’t he in middle school yet? Am I retired? I don’t understand time.
But things have felt way more normal than last year, except I still don’t feel okay. I have struggled with what we’ve all struggled with and I like to hide behind the fact that I’m a mom and I work full time. In true sancti-mommy style. I just don’t have time for myself. Which is a total lie: I don’t make time. Instead of dealing with myself, I make homemade chia pudding and scroll through Pinterest trying to figure out how I can be the best mom and in turn, the worst Sarah.
I didn’t realize this had happened until I went to Jose’s house for his twin son’s birthday party. Paul has been friends with Jose since he first started working at the hospital nearly 8 years ago. Jose’s parties are always epic. Picture a perfect marriage between your grandma’s house and Friendsgiving. It’s all there: warmth, ease, incredible food, music, laughter, wine. But really, it’s the people.
It wasn’t long before I started making small talk with Jose’s cousin, Jessica. She was in from Napa and has four kids and we talked potty training and daycare and two year olds. We laughed and told stories about our kids, but it was hard to let Penn just “play.” I worry about all the stuff: is he sharing? Is he going to jump off the deck? Is he playing with an open flame? Is he yelling at someone that touched the mountain of cookies that he claimed for himself in conquistador fashion? Is he annoying everyone?
Jessica sensed my unease. And then she said this. “He’s fine, you know. He’s having fun. He’s safe here.”
And I teared up. She was right. I made myself stop chasing him around and I just watched. Every time he thought about darting out the door, an older lady would stand in front of it and smile. Every time he dashed towards the deck stairs on a car, someone would run after him. Every time he got possessive about the cookies, someone would distract him with a cowboy hat. And something in me relaxed. My jaw softened. I said yes to wine. I watched all of these family members get a kick of out of my kid. They laughed with him and patted him on the head. He wasn’t a burden: he was a joy.
Glennon Doyle and probably others? have written about how fear is the opposite of love, and controlling our kids comes out of fear, not love. What am I doing when I’m trying to control his every move? Yes, to an extent, he’s a toddler and he has and will injure himself. But this huge weight came off my shoulders when I realized that I hyperfocus on him so I don’t have to focus on myself. And also, crap, I should probably think about myself sometimes. Eyeroll.
IT IS EASY to focus on being a mom above all else. It’s like literally walking into a sitcom and playing that character. This is how it is. This is life. This is parenthood. We’re all miserable but we dodge those icky feelings with Target runs and Starbucks. Why do I feel this way all the time? BECAUSE! I work FULL TIME and also I have a TODDLER and also I make PUDDING from SCRATCH (listen, I just want you to know that I make a lot of pudding). I was just fitting in. In fact, this behavior is encouraged. Social media spreads it around like wildfire: all this sanctimonious text about how women sacrifice and men are just supposed to appreciate it, pray to the mommy statue, and move on. As if we just need to be appreciated. That’s it. That’s all. We can still run on empty, just acknowledge that we’re empty, please.
In my own house. we’ve all decided that mommy is in charge of most things. I have taken this on whole-heartedly because it fed my ego and need to be the best mom in the universe. But the mental energy it takes to remember if we’re low on almond milk, to call the dentist, to sign up for the Halloween school potluck, to sort through his old clothes, to meal plan for the week, could break me. It does. I cry and move on. I have decided that I don’t have time to think about it. Because this is how it is.
I have always thrived in renewals. Sign me up for all the transformations. New Years Eve. The new seasons. Back to school. The ritual of starting over. In this season in my life, renewals hit me across the face. They are the opposite of subtle. I don’t have them on my calendar. Alarm bells ring in my ear and things come into focus.
I got it all wrong: I cannot afford to overlook myself. I have been distracted by thinking being an “amazing” mom is agonizing over snacks and clothes and haircuts and houses. These are easy solutions because they are just things you can buy. But you cannot commodify personal growth, you just have to do the work. Penn deserves a mom that shows up for herself. That means I’m also showing up for him. He’d be fine eating store bought pudding if that means mom went to yoga. How can I teach him to trust his gut if I forgot how to listen to mine? I need that space: to figure out how I feel, to honor the fact that I feel deeply, to process and reflect and change. Not because I earned it, but because I cannot afford not to. Keeping him “safe” in an already safe space is telling myself a story, keeping myself busy so I don’t have to look at me.
I’m not really sure what the take away is. I know I need to let go, but it’s going to be a slow, excruciating process of unlearning all the lessons I’ve inherited and absorbed on what it is to be a mother. There is a piece that involves letting go that feels so incredibly uncomfortable and unnatural. But I know it’s about trust. It’s trusting that as he ages, he needs to learn, at times, on his own. It’s trusting that he’s forming relationships outside our nuclear family that only adds to his life. It’s trusting that, at some point, I’ve done everything I can do and he deserves to have the space to live his life. And what a relief it will be to someday trust and know that this is the only way forward.
I woke up Sunday morning feeling immensely grateful for my family and everyone in my life. My house. My job. My friends. My future. And I truly think it’s because I went to Jose’s and let a stranger (now a friend) tell me to chill. And I had a really great time and my kid stayed alive (and thrived). And maybe that’s all I really need right now: more chances to practice letting go.