Mediocre house keeper.
Not that talented.
For every few days I feel able, I have days when I feel completely and embarrassingly and reluctantly
I tell myself all the mistakes I made in my life, and what I should have done differently.
I married too young. Had children too young. Should have finished college.
Should have gotten my degree. Should have worked harder. Should have tried harder.
Should have had more confidence in my abilities.
I tell myself over and over
Where progress is made, it seems to trudge through the unorganized, unmotivated pieces
I leave scattered all over, the things that must be kicked out of the way.
Like waves, but without rhythm.
One week I have homemade dinners waiting for my husband
when he walks through the door
(complete with a table set by a three year old I consciously involved)
and the next, River is eating peanut butter and jelly or Cheerios
for the third night in a row
and I ask my husband, Do you want to just stop for something at McDonald's?
And I am very aware of the friends of mine who prepare
warm, organic, balanced meals
for their families every evening.
One week I am patient with my children,
and I actually think, Am I becoming a better mother?
Have I actually got this thing?
And I pat myself on the back.
But then the next week I spend almost every day yelling
and huffing and puffing
because apparently I didn't learn when I was a child
that that's not how we get people to cooperate.
Especially little people who are learning by my example
to yell and huff and puff right back.
One week the kitchen and living room stay clean all week long,
but somehow I choose to stay blind to the diapers piling up in the bathroom
and the mountain of laundry we kick off the bed to the floor every night
(Oh yeah, I'm going to get to that tomorrow)
as my husband suggests that maybe I should clean up a little
before taking the kids to Barnes & Noble in the morning.
One week I am proud of myself because I almost ran three and a half miles
(a new record),
and proud of myself because I realized I can run fast
(even if only for a tenth of a mile)
and the next I can barely make it to two
without feeling like I've left my shoulders dragging on the ground ten feet behind.
And meanwhile, a friend who began running three months after I started
is blazing a six mile path at an eight and a half minute pace,
and is signed up for her first half-marathon next month.
Suddenly my record of almost three and a half miles
is not so impressive.
The past few days my spirit has been aching a little.
And then my stomach hurts.
And then I can't sleep.
And then I'm incredibly rude to my family.
Some days I think it's selfish,
and some days I think it's remnants of my depression & anxiety from years ago.
And some days I hope to God it's not my new normal.
It's called being human, right?
I am feeling painfully human lately.
I feel like everything I try to accomplish, everything I do fairly well,
...isn't good enough.
Sometimes I feel strong and capable,
and then sometimes I just feel weak and tired and failing.
Believe me, I know nothing good will come
from thinking of how things are not.
I know nothing changes until I make the decision to change.
I'm not dwelling in this feeling of mediocrity.
I only think of it in the quiet moments.
And you know, in a week, my house will be clean
and I'll have dinner ready,
and my children will be behaving nicely.
And hopefully I will have confidence again in my ability to simply run.
Even if I can't run six miles.
Even if I can't run fast.
I am really trying to remember that I am an example to my daughter,
And to be the kind of woman I want her to be.
God, that's hard.
And I am really trying to tell myself the things
I would say to a friend if a friend felt like this.
I know we all have seasons like this.
It's okay to have a human moment now and then.