This morning I was listening to my husband put together a bowl of Cheerios and bananas as I sat in my chair watching the morning news. All of a sudden I hear an expletive. The milk was bad. I felt sorry for him and offered to run down to the corner store and get some. He said no, he’d be fine. I insisted. I knew he was going to the gym and wanted him to have breakfast. Then he insisted no, he’d eat the bananas and be fine. So I turned and went upstairs to get ready for my day. I was looking out the window, brushing my teeth, thinking that my husband is an adult and he knows whether or not he needs more than bananas to eat before going to the gym. I don’t have to insist on fixing it for him. (I did hear him creaking up the stairs and was surprised to find he’d come up to tell me he appreciated my efforts.)
Sometimes I have to stop being the mom and just be me. Is there a “me” apart from being a mom? That was part of a big question I answered for myself during my, what is now, eight month journey down the road of healing and self-discovery. I found there is. I even actually like the person I found, once I stopped worrying about everyone else. There were a few precarious weeks where I had to ask myself what I was going to do with all the extra time I used to spend worrying about my husband and girls and trying to make sure their lives were in order so I could sleep nights. I looked to my writing. I took an art class and found a relaxing solace in drawing. I focused on one of the five huge lessons I learned on this journey – be custodial with all that God has given you. I began to take an interest in yard work. My husband set me up with the mower so I could keep the grass cut while he’s gone. I washed my car. I began painting the outside of my house. I devote 2-5 pm each day to washing, cleaning, or painting something around my house.
The thought process is priceless as I go about these tasks. Today, as I paint the ceiling on my porch, I reaffirm there is a “me” apart from being a mom. I realize my girls need to go about their lives much the same way as I am. They need to make decisions and live without me constantly worrying if they’re ok. I know they’ll come around if there’s a crisis, and I like that. I also know they’ll come around just because they miss us and they care. I like that too. In between we’ll all go about doing what do and being who we are.
And so, as another day goes by, pieces of “mom” fall away and pieces of “me” emerge, and ….I have written.
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