Am I Doing This Right?

Today was rough. I’ve been sleep deprived for the past few weeks trying to adjust to having a newborn in the house. Apparently she needs nourishment (ahem, breastmilk which I, and only I, can provide), and trying to keep up with her demands and write again has been tricky. Writing is really only possible at night after my other two girls are in bed, which means I’m up late in order to get it done. Honestly, most days I feel like I’m only giving half of what I can to my kids, or my work, and that leaves me feeling frustrated and unfulfilled.

Riding this rollercoaster for the last month has left me completely exhausted, and it’s in that state when I begin to wonder why I’m even trying at all. That sounds kind of dramatic, but it’s true. Why am I trying to write? Why don’t I just give it up already and focus all of my energy on my kids? Questions like these seem incessant on days like today. Days where I’m too tired to be very much fun, or to be very patient. Too tired to believe my daughter when she says I’m the best mom ever. Too tired to really soak in the hugs and kisses they both give me.

I feel bad because I feel like I should be lifting them up. but it’s hard when I’m barely keeping my head above water. I can’t seem to keep my house looking presentable for more than a couple of hours (if that, honestly). The dishes and laundry seem to be piled up in bottomless heaps. The list of things I should be doing for friends or family to help them out seems endless, and no matter how many times I tell myself I’m going to get in the shower, the day passes and it doesn’t happen yet again. Whoops.

This is all what being a mother to young children entails, I suppose. The problem is, I have dreams. Dreams that won’t die. I can’t smother them. I’ve tried. I want to tell my stories so badly that I endure this internal conflict every day. And even when it feels like it’s not worth it, I come back to this keyboard, and I put my fingers on it, and I type.

Sometimes it’s just a whiney blogpost like tonight, but sometimes it’s thousands of words what come together flawlessly. Both are beautiful to me. And I’m getting better—at being a mom, and a writer. You see, like anything else, it all comes with practice.

When my second daughter was a baby I remember having to go to Walmart by myself with both kids. My husband was in school full time, so if he wasn’t in class, he was studying, and it just wasn’t possible to run errands alone most of the time. My oldest daughter was about two, and was still not a pro at going potty on the toilet. I was anxious and stressed every time I had to leave the house with them, and I just prayed that we would all make it back home without one of us peeing our pants (hello weakened pelvic floor muscles).

We were almost done with our shopping trip when the baby started to cry, and then the toddler joined her. They were both inconsolable, and my anxiety started to intensify. I felt my breathing constrict and the familiar weight of dread and entrapment in my chest. My jaw tightened, my stomach twisted, and I knew things were about to fall apart.

In my head I envisioned myself getting the baby out of her carseat, shushing my toddler, and trying to fish my wallet out of an overflowing diaper bag to pay for our groceries, all at the same time. Just imagining what that would look and feel like sent me into a panic. It had been a long day. We were all tired and hungry, and it was also freezing out—which didn’t help anything.

Instead of going to the checkout line, I quickly detoured over to the clothing section where there was no one around. I stopped the cart, got the baby out of her carseat, gave my older daughter my phone to play with, sat on the floor and cried my eyes out while I nursed right there in the hats and accessories aisle. It was not my finest moment, but we survived.

My point is, I was a new mother of two. I had no idea how to juggle two kids, especially an infant and a potty-training toddler, but I figured it out. I look back (but not very far back) on that girl with two kids, and my heart grows tight with sympathy and love, because that young mom didn’t give up. She went out with those kids over and over and over again until it became second nature.

I know that’s how this juggling act will go too. The thing is, life doesn’t get easier. You just get stronger. You learn, you adapt, you find help, you get really good advice, you let the little things go, and you move forward. I’m now a mom of three, with a burgeoning writing career that I cherish. I’m not about to give it up before I see where it takes me, so I just keep trudging forward through all the tired.

Despite all the days where I feel like I’m not really doing anything right, I keep going because I want my girls to see that they can do everything they want to do, as long as they keep at it. There really is no one “right way” to do life. The only thing that matters is that we keep striving to be better each day. Strength is created in the struggle, and I'’m fighting for this. I hope you’re fighting for what you want, too.

And, when I lose perspective (like I’m bound to do at least ten or so times a day), I look at this picture and remember what life is really about. Find something that centers you, and helps you remember why you’re doing what you’re doing, and why it matters.