Imperfect Sea legs

The best I can say is that I'm trying to get my sea legs.

Today marks the second week that my kiddos have been in school and that I've been working at the school...just two days, so you wouldn't think that it's a big deal, but well, it's been a...

I'm learning how to maintain my stamina with 31 of my favorite second graders while helping my sixth, fourth and kindergartner to acclimate to new teachers, upcoming tests, lack of sleep and a new energy that hasn't been present for several months.

In an effort to blow off some steam and just get away from it all, I went to see Bad Moms.  I know I'm late to the party, but have you seen this movie?

Sweet Mary Mother of God, I laughed my arse off.

And while waiting to get into the theater, I shit you not, a group of hooch mamas rolled in (I only say hooch because they wore clothes that I could only dream of shimmying into) and pulled out a bottle of wine they loaded into their handbags to make the movie more interesting.

I remarked on the wedding ring of one of the girls saying, "Sweet Jesus...that's gorgeous!" to which her friend said, "I know right?!!!  She's getting married and clearly that's a rock to be proud of!  Versus (and she pulls up her own hand, points to her wedding ring) THIS...Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Nothing," laughs and walks away.

I'm not gonna lie.  I peed myself a little.

While I was watching the movie, I realized that I'm exhausted by living in a space of judgement, particularly as a mom.

For fuck sake, we are all just trying to do the best that we can and knowing the amount of self deprecating thoughts that run through our heads, the last thing we need is to worry about what the PTA president thinks of us; when it is that we last showered ourselves or our kids; how many Facebook friends we have; whether our kids bring Jimmy Johns for lunch or if we dropped the f-bomb in front of them.

And so, struggling to remind myself that I'm doing okay...not perfect, but okay...I mosied up the stairs after a long day to find this by my bedside.

Flowers from Claire.  Picked out of the backyard with a note addressed to Kelly.  "I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.  You are the best mama."  Love, Claire Bear

And I lost it.  Maybe, it's all going to be okay.  Maybe, they love me in spite of me.  Maybe, they see something that I don't in me.  Maybe, I am enough.

Maybe, we're all bad moms and in admitting so, we put an end to the farce that perfectionism is possible in this mad dash to parent and to work and to clean and to love and to mess up and to disappoint even when you tried really hard not to.

Maybe, we could all just accept that it's hard and we're really lucky to get share our lives with these crazy rug rats who are probably turning into amazing human beings.

And that, imperfect sea legs are better than not trying at all.

Hail to the Shitty First Draft

It's freeing the first time you do something.

It doesn't have to be the first time ever.

It could be the first time for that day.

Like, the first run of the morning...the first report writing of the day at the office...the first thing you tell yourself as your feet travel from the bed to the floor....the first words out of your mouth to another.

It's freeing because there's no expectation.  It doesn't have to be perfect.  It doesn't have to be tidy.  It just has to be.

I write much like I live...scattered, chaotic, neurotic, a bit like a caged animal full of lots to share with the world but mired by the inability to find the perfect way out of my own prison walls.

And so the other day I told myself, you've got to get something down on paper.

This essay isn't going to write itself.

No one has to see it or ever read it.

Let it be awful.

In fact, will it, work hard to make it clicheish, cheese dicky, run-ony, ridiculously over the top, in short...absolutely horrible.

The gift of telling myself that the first draft would be abysmal made the writing process more alive, fluid, and fun than I could have ever imagined.

And now, I have the ultimate shitty first draft.  And, hands down, it's a beaut.  A real piece of shit.

But, it's more than I had yesterday.

And, it's a starting point...there's actual content to edit.  Hallelujah!  I get to be both an author and an editor!

I decided that the metaphor of the shitty first draft is a perfect one for the way I should be living my life.  Because the other way isn't working very well.  It's suffocating and exhausting to be worried about it always looking good.  It's stifling and really no fun at all to be consumed by getting it right.

It's exhilarating to presume that you'll most likely get it wrong but that simultaneously, the sun will come up tomorrow and you'll be better for trying.

So, I say, "Hail to the Shitty First Draft!"  Hail to running the slow and heavy mile.  Hail to letting the beds stay unmade and the dust bunnies collect.  Hail to knowing that you need to go to the store but choosing to take a walk while crunching the yellow leaves in your path.  Hail to letting yourself have the ugly cry when a disagreement with your child sent you into the depths of despair.  Hail to not mowing the lawn and being "that house" on the street.  Hail to Starbucks cups and Gatorade containers lining the bottom of your car. 

Hail to letting go of that that doesn't matter, so that you can make space for the pieces, places, and people who do.