Those days in which there doesn’t quite seem like there’s enough seconds, minutes, hours, breaths to accomplish everything that my arbitrary yet ever-present to-do list says I should do. I woke up with my heart heavy with a case of the shoulds, my head already aching with the have-to’s before my feet even hit the floor. Once my feet touched down, the frantic frenzy began. Everything had to be done five minutes ago and nothing was going according to my mind’s plan. Rather than taking a breath and calming the hell down, I kept up my frenzy, finding myself walking in hurried circles amongst dog bowls and tea sets. I couldn’t stop myself even though I knew all too well how days like this end- in a heaping, anxious, tired yet spastic clump of a woman. Me.

I do not feel better or more accomplished as the day draws to a close. Instead, I am choked up with guilt. That mom guilt that always resides somewhere in the pit of my stomach and rises up to take residence in my heart and I feel it physically manifest in my throat. Not even a huge gulp of my Rite Aid 2 for $10 wine can dislodge this lump of sadness, guilt, and regret from its new home.

I sit here and tell myself that tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better. Different. Is it still considered a lie if you’re telling the fallacy to yourself? I sit and think how tomorrow I will cherish the little things and not feel so hurried. That tomorrow I will say “Screw you to-do list! We’re winging it!” But I know that’s not true. And with me, it’s nearly impossible. It’s these moments that make me sit and reflect on the “bigger picture” and I have montages in my head of Nugget going to school, to prom, to college… And then I get pissed. At myself. At the way I am because I’m blowing it. Why couldn’t I just watch her play and set up a tea party with cupcakes for the Muttleys? Why didn’t I let her splash around a little longer in the tub? Why was I always in such a goddamned hurry?!

As it usually does, it all catches up to me as we approach “ni-ni” time. My voice catches as I tell her she makes me happy when skies are gray. Because she does. And she’ll likely never know how much I love her, but I want to live each day at least trying to show her an inkling of how much.

I’m making a promise. To her. To myself. To slow the ever loving hell down. I am not going to say “cherish every moment” because tantrums happen and I need not cherish those. But I want to be more present. Rather than rushing through my 500 lists of the have-to’s and the shoulds, I want to be able to shut that part of my brain on mute so I can truly be with her. I want to see things the way she sees them. I want to stop watching the clock whose second hands are deafening in my ears. I want to be in THAT MOMENT rather than my head being 30 moments in the future.

This will not be an easy task for me. I know that much is true. For a person like me, who is so Type-A, OCD & anxiety ridden/driven, it will take a physical and mental effort to stop the rush. But I’m here now saying I’m willing to try. Nugget may not hold these moments as memories s she gets older, but what happens when she does? I don’t want her to remember being rushed everywhere and through everything. I don’t want her to remember me as that. I want her to remember how I made up silly songs with her, our countless tea parties, dance parties, and bedtime snuggles. I have no control over what memories she will carry with her into adolescence and adulthood. But I can control my actions and thoughts starting now. I know I will mess up because I am human. I know, as any mother does, that the ugly-cry inducing mom guilt will always be in me, looking for an opportune moment to make its presence known. But for now, I choose to acknowledge my faults and to try as hard as I can to improve on them. This one’s for you Baby Girl. You are my sunshine.

Stopping to enjoy the sunshine

You are my sunshine

Nugget doesn’t judge.

As I sat in Nugget’s class and watched her interact with the other toddlers, I realized how truly innocent children are. They don’t hold a grudge over the person who took their ball the week prior. They don’t judge who is wearing what brand and who has a shitty haircut. They just are. I wish, as an adult, to just be able to be in that blatantly innocent way that only children can be. No baggage. No judgment. No hidden meanings. Children say what they feel when they feel it. And in reality, is there something so wrong with that? Why is that a behavior we must “grow out of?” People go to therapy to learn how to effectively tell people what they mean, so why are children raised to repress that innocent, glorious part of themselves?

As adults, we learn who we can and cannot open ourselves up to. More times than not, we learn the hard way. Through betrayal. Through secrets being shared at lunch time as we’re approaching the lunch table while our “friends” glance at us sideways. Through coworkers taking credit for our work or not inviting us to lunch anymore. Or a friend who decides that your brand of friendship isn’t what they signed up for. Shit’s rough.

I used to scoff when people told me that as I grew older, my husband would become my best friend and that if I could count the amount of truly close friends I had on one hand, to consider myself lucky. Well send me a slice of that humble pie because here I am. And I honestly consider myself the luckiest person in this world. I have my husband, mom, dad, and a best friend that everyone needs in their repertoire to call and talk to at any given moment and be completely Sarah. I can be honest, blunt, sad, mad, hurt, whatever the range of emotions. I have these people who accept me for who I am, listen to me, and are there for me. No conditions. This is where unconditional love comes from.

I was raised in a family where we didn’t shy away from telling each other what was going on or how we felt. From the outside, we may come across as dysfunctional because we are honest with one another. There’s no need for bullshit niceties when you’re talking to people who know your soul, inside and out. Honesty is expected and appreciated. Maybe that’s just the effect of being an “only” child. My parents and I have always been honest with one another, even when it isn’t so pleasant. But I can sit here today and say that my parents are my best friends and biggest supporters here on this earth. So take that as you will.

I don’t believe in bullshit… In politically correct ways of beating around the bush to say what you really mean to say. I believe that the people who end up forming your rock, your foundation, are those that no disclaimers are necessary. You can just be you, and they can be themselves to you and things still work. So why the need for the bullshit? The niceties? Why not just come out and say what you mean to say?

As much as I’d like to be in Nugget’s position of pure innocence and no baggage but a sippy cup and her purse, that’s just not real. As we get older we accumulate more and more baggage. And with the baggage comes baggage fees. We walk into every relationship with some form of baggage. As the relationship grows, we decide how much of our baggage to reveal or to hide away in the darkest corner or our souls. Sometimes we reveal too much too quickly and the person bolts. So be it. I’m at the point in my life that if you can’t handle my baggage, then you just can’t handle me. I own my baggage; the good, the bad, the ugly second hand garage sale shit baggage. All of it. I own it.

My baggage makes me who I am here today. Not yesterday. Not last year. Right now. If someone can’t handle that, they can exit to the right once the vehicle slows and the doors open. But the people who can handle me, with no apologies necessary for who I am, those are my people. They always have been, they always will be. This is why I consider myself lucky to have these handful of people behind me no matter what. Life isn’t always pretty and sing-a-longs and roasting marshmallows sharing kumbaya type shit. But my people… my people make my life what it is and I wouldn’t change a thing.

You want time for yourself? I will cut you.

Time. As a mom, it is always time for something. It began when I found out I was pregnant- it was time for my doctor appointment, time to find out the sex, time for my baby shower, and good Lord don’t forget the time for labor. Then with this fresh baby in my arms at home, it was time to nurse, time to burp, time to pump, time for her diaper change. Time.

As my time became more and more accounted for, I noticed that my self was less and less a priority. At the risk of sounding selfish, there was never a moment where my time came into play. Once we were out of the confines of the hospital room and on-call help, my time ceased to exist. There was no recovery time. Now I was officially Mom and I guess it was time for me to suck it up and join the ranks of all those who proceeded me.

As Nugget moved into toddlerhood, it became more and more apparent that my time just wasn’t a thing anymore. My time is now considered to be running countless errands, playing with the Nugget and managing a house full of unruly dogs. This left me wondering, when is it my time to clock out for my break? When I worked in a union I was guaranteed two 15-minute breaks and a 30-minute lunch. Now, I am lucky if I get to brush my teeth and choke down a yogurt, standing up hiding in the kitchen.

What about naptime you say? That’s when everything else gets done, and when your title is Mom, you begin to fall lower and lower on the “to-do” list. Why does it seem I am ungrateful for my position if I say I need some me time. And to be clear, I’m not talking about the unrealistic yet oft written about Eat Pray Love shit. My time would be called Shit, Shower, Smoke- how profound, I know. Screw the massage. After being pulled at and prodded all day by a curiously sweet toddler, I don’t want to pay some stranger to touch me. Give me a beer, a cig, and a jukebox and I’d be happier than shit.

Why is it that those who work outside of the home can bitch about their jobs all they want and that’s deemed normal and healthy, but a stay at home mom does the same and we seem like ungrateful assholes because “every moment is precious?” And in sets the ever-present mom guilt ready to take over your brain like some sort of illness where we feel guilty for how much we enjoyed going to Target alone or for having a mom’s night that starts at 6:00pm. How much self is there to give away? How much is healthy? When I worked, my job and my time was appreciated and respected. Now it has fallen into some dark crevice of my closet where my skinny jeans have taken up residence, neither of which are likely to be seen again.

Another question I find myself asking lately is why does the “mismanagement” of time seem to be my fault to others? When I was Professional Sarah, I spent countless hours after my big girl job at happy hours, drowning my woes into my glass and into any ears that were available to hear my cries. That was considered socially acceptable. My time now seems to be everyone’s business. God forbid I mention I am a mom, much less one that stays home, to someone when I happen to be out enjoying a drink. I immediately get the judgmental look along with comments implying that my place is at home and not enjoying my “me time.”

To be clear, I do not hate my job. However, at most jobs, you get to clock out when the whistle blows and you become You again, the You that you may have suppressed while being “professional” You. The job title of Mom never ceases. I do not miss much from my previous career life, except for the part where venting about a shit day seemed more worthy and socially acceptable.

Coming from a career where I had to bill out in six minute increments exactly what I was doing with my time, the importance and severity of time was constantly thrown in my face. Thank God Nugget doesn’t do that to me, but still, where is the release? Where is the right to say, “today sucked” without having to apologize for our honesty and to make sure the listener knows just how much we do love our child?

It seems as though because I “stay at home” people respect my time less and less due to their June Cleaver mentality that I don’t do much during the day but have time to myself and just dick around the house watching my stories. One of these days I will put “Me” on my to-do list that is never quite done.

Someone once told me that you teach people how to treat you. I wonder if I began to respect my own time and began making myself a priority, that others would follow suit? Something tells me that I’d just get lost amongst my list along with the photo books I’ve been meaning to make since July and the baby book still in the wrapper. Sometimes the most basic of tasks are the most difficult to complete for reasons I have yet to figure out.

Until then, I will be snuggling with this sweet girl before she won’t let me.

Can’t resist that smile in some snuggly jams