Everything is the same, all the time.
This thought has been plaguing me for a while now, chipping away at me and every effort I make to be good: a good mom, a good wife, a good friend, a good daughter…
It’s not that I’m bored. I don’t have time to be bored. God, how I wish I had time to be bored!
I’m just a little tired – of working so hard all the time. Sometimes I think this is the way it’s supposed to be, so why complain? We’re supposed to work hard, build a life, start a family, get a house. But once you have all of that, then what? This is the big lesson of my 30s. That all of the things other people say will bring you happiness sometimes don’t.
And here comes that thought creeping back into my head…”everything is the same, all the time.”
My husband joked, in a half-panicked tone (poor guy), that he thinks I’m having a midlife crisis. Man, I wish that’s what this was. That sounds fun. Fake boobs! Spray tan! Sports car! Fruity drinks! Instagram selfies! But that’s not what this is.
Friends tell me this is what happens as you start to emerge from the time when your kids are small – those ten or so years when you pour absolutely every ounce of everything you have in your soul into tiny people who crawl into your bed at 5:45 a.m. to brightly announce, two inches from your still asleep face, “I peed in the potty, it’s time to get up, mommy!” Disclosure: this happened today. Please, get me a coffee.
I love my kids like no one else. They are my whole world. But who am I now? Surely, even after a billion diaper changes, toddler tantrums, and sleepless nights, I’m more than just “mom”. Right? Or should that just be enough? For me, I suspect that it’s not.
I’m now trying to wage a conscious battle with that idea that I have to be good for everyone else, all the time. This is not easy though. Even as I’m writing this, I’m worrying about the words not being good enough for other people. But, I know that we all have inner struggles, even people who seem like they have their shit together. Some of those people are, in fact, deeply suffering.
This morning I searched online for advice on this topic. Frankly, the advice sucked. It went like this: you lost yourself after you had kids, but they bring you so much joy so get over it lady. How lame is that? Fuck you, Internet. You’re such a buzz kill.
The way I’m starting to see it, the answer to “everything is the same, all the time” must be change.
I don’t know what that means. But I know it doesn’t mean getting fake boobs. Yet.