A Perfect Wife and mother

My days tend to be pretty relaxed, by necessity. If they’re crammed full of doing doing doing, going here and there making sure this gets done tightening drawer pullscleaningshoppinglaundryobligationnotimetoeatbreathe…it all turns into anxiety over ONOwhatdidiforgetiforgotsomethingimportantbutidon’tknowhatONO…which feeds itself and becomes a monster that then morphs into No Sleep Panic Attacks One Right After The Other…ad nauseum and the next thing you know I’m at the psychiatrist’s office getting readjusted and then entire balance of the household universe is upset. Somewhere in there I’ll start worrying about the boys and convinced that their lives are doomed and Terry’s doomed and we’re ALL DOOOOOMED.

and you know what, that sucks.

I see women, mothers of the kids #4 goes to school with, and they have daytime jobs, get the multiple kids to and from this and that, cook meals, do laundry, keep a tidy house, basically fill every waking moment with productive activity. I read proverbs 31 about The Perfect Woman who does all that *and* spins her own wool and flax *and* runs a business.

It’s enough to give a girl a complex.

Used to be, I could Do It All. When I had 3 preschool children, we were always on time, they were always dressed and clean, snacks packed, shoes tied and dinner in the crock pot. The house was tidy, I had a lovely rose garden and vegetable beds. Appointments were kept, lunches were had with friends and I was Dependable.

I’ve learned to deal with not being able to Do It All, but sometimes it gets to me. At church Sunday,for Mother’s Day, the associate preacher read Proverbs 31, and the whole time I kept thinking of Erma Bombeck’s essay on Mother’s day. I can’t find it online, but she talks about the imperfect ones, the sick, drug addled mothers, the ones who drink too much or leave their kids or work 2 jobs because they don’t like being around their children. I like that better than Provebs 31. I wonder if any other woman in that sanctuary Sunday felt like I did-damaged, imperfect, like she was being held to an impossible standard. The preacher’s wife was sitting right in front of me, and he went on about how hard she worked and what a wonderful wife and mother she was, and I wondered if she ever felt like screaming, or did she ever hide under the covers with a bag of cheetoes and a trashy novel.

the fact is, I do the best I can, most of the time. i know my boundaries. I *wish* I could be more…whatever it is that I’m not…and don’t try to be encouraging and tell me I’m a wonderful wife/mother…because I’m not but I do the best I can, most of the time. I’m not a cupcake baking take my kid to soccer/karate/piano balanced meal cooking perfect housekeeping pearl wearing perfect wife and mother. I don’t even try to be, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have that kind of energy and drive, to be able to schedule every minute doing something beneficial, instead of having to schedule in down time all day long, because if down time doesn’t happen, the spiral of activity gets faster and faster and I won’t be able to stop it until a disaster happens and there’s a messy mental crash, which upsets everyone’s applecart for weeks.

yeah yeah, stop wishing for something you aren’t and start appreciating what you are…i hear that. Most of the time I’m fine with it all, it is what it is and at least I canget done what needs to be done, but sometimes…it just doesn’t seem like enough.