Suck a Little Less

I can give you a laundry list of all of the things that I suck at...it's a beaut really...equally as expansive as it is lengthy.

My hunch is that if you're a mother, my list feels similar to yours.

Lamenting about my sick kids and upcoming Christmas travels, my dear friend listened kindly to me as I dumped my shit and then proclaimed, "You know you're going to be a new woman next year.  All you're really longing for is space.  Room to breathe, to write, to run, to not be needed at the drop of a dime, space to be with you, again.  Next year, when they're all in school...well, I think you won't feel like you suck so badly."

After getting off the phone with her, I lugged my kids to Target and became that parent who refuses to referee her kids in the toy aisle because she has to buy birthday presents, teacher gifts and just doesn't give a fuck if the volume gets a little too high because her Starbucks latte that may or may not be spiked with fire water is all that she can muster.

Somewhere between the, "ALL RIGHT, ALREADY...pick a gift and let's round it up," my Kate turned to me and said, "It's okay.  You don't have to worry so much.  Everything's okay."

Instinctively, I wanted to belt out, "Yes I do have to worry or else nothing will get done in this household."  But then, it occurred to me.  She's right.  I don't have to worry...at least not with the frequency that I find myself.  I don't have to be a self-proclaimed mother sucker extraordinaire.

The reason that we can all relate to each other is because at the end of the day, the business of parenthood is physically taxing, emotionally exhausting and spiritually debilitating because it matters.  We care about the well being and ultimate after math of what our kids become.  We pray that they don't grow to carry the same burdens that we feel as adults.  We want to carve out a childhood that fosters all of the hopes and dreams we have for them...and that's fucking hard work when they're sucking the life out of you at every turn.

It's hard.  But it's not impossible.  And, in the end, it doesn't have to be fraught with fear or worry or rage.  I told my friend that I fully expect all three of my children to be paying someone to shrink their brain on a couch.  If they're anything like me, they'll be therapy whores.  It just feels really good to tell someone who doesn't know you and is being paid to listen what keeps you up at night.

That said, I think I can give myself the grace to suck a little less.  There's no need to give two shits about a clean house or folded laundry or any of the random to-do's that I'm constantly pondering.

My hunch is that we're all doing a pretty good God damn job as parents.

We can afford to trust in that and worry a little less...it might make an adult Starbucks beverage at Target taste a little better.