He bounded to the altar like a ball of positive energy in the land of Jesus. “Welcome!” he exclaimed, and then proceeded to pour out a beautiful PowerPoint laced with ambition and enthusiasm for our children’s program as the lights shone on his wrinkle-free face. Having begrudgingly left my seat at the back of the sanctuary, I tried to chicken scratch some notes on the handout. He was so seamlessly prepared, with energy and good intention flooding out of every pore. I was a half-awake mama bear, guzzling my coffee and wishing I could get back to hibernation. That’s when it hit me – this is why the families of children used to look at the young adult version of me with adoring/desperate eyes. I was him. I was their relief pitcher. A loving, responsible, overly conscientious source of child care, someone who could literally bring everyone home when the parental starters needed a break.

Back in the day I took myself for granted. There’s babysitter me, gentle-fighting with the mom of the family, because I insisted on making soup on the stove instead of zapping it in the microwave. Naturally I already had veggies chopped for the kids’ after school snack, portioned out with just the right amount of ranch dressing. Ask me about the craft activity I have planned next! And now here’s Mother me, resolutely sending fruits & veggies for school snack even though “all the other kids get junk food”, and making big dinners on weekends so we can eat healthy leftovers during week. Babysitter me reveled in shepherding kids to temple for Hebrew school. Mother me revels in hauling my daughter to school and soccer and swim team, but mother me is a lot more tired. Prolly cause babysitter me went home to eating artisan pizza in a dorm room, while mother me goes back home, mops cat vomit off the floor, emails the teacher & throws sports uniforms in the wash.

And then there’s life outside of being a mom. I still want to live up to the dreams my parents had for me. Hell, I still want to live out the dreams I have for me. But the bathtub is leaking, the credit card bill is due, I can’t stop thinking about the project at work and my daughter wants to read a comic book together. What a beautiful time to lower my standards and practice my targeting. Targeting, not as in going to the store and temporarily escaping it all while racking up a cartful of cute stuff I don’t need, but filtering out the dreams that are just shiny glitter.

Ever notice how the hardest diversions masquerade as real dreams? Like the time in high school I convinced myself I wanted to be a geneticist and therefore it was a great idea to take AP Bio. I didn’t and it wasn’t. And even as I registered, part of me already knew that, I just wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. I wanted to do it all. Or, at least do everything I even vaguely cared about. Continuing the theme into adulthood, I thought I could re-create for my daughter everything I loved about my childhood while fixing everything I didn’t and having a high-flying career (like my dad), being an amazing parent (like my mom) and providing emotional support every step of the way (the one place I struggled with my folks ).

Mmmm hmmm. There’s a reason this blog is called Perfectionist Anonymous. Ask me how all that’s going. As I’m mom-ing, blogging, working, and chasing my adult figure skating dreams, just ask me. I’ll be happy to tell you, as soon as I pick myself up off the floor & remember how to use my mouth to form words again. Kidding, that’s only happened once or twice. But even getting close to it is way outside anything you could call acceptable self-care territory. 

I’m feeling it lately – I need help. Not help with the mental health stuff – I mean, obviously we all need that in some way but humblebrag, I’m kind of good at pulling those chains. No, back on topic – I need concrete help with the “needs to be done” shit.

Cause, you know something about having a school-age kid that seems like it should be easy but isn’t? Driving. As in, driving to school, driving to soccer, driving to swim practice, driving to standing doctor’s appointments. In the past year, me driving my child has gotten dramatically harder. Not coincidentally, it’s also the first year since we’ve been parents that my husband has had a full time job. Now that my go-to of “Daddy can get you there” is no longer a go-to, the new go-to is me. I love spending the time with my kid. I am privileged to have the means to sign her up for appointments and activities and the ability to get her there. But it can be a lot to drive to school and back, work for 6 hours, drive to school and downtown for the standing appointment, back home to do a little work, heat up leftovers, drive to soccer, then back home and herd kiddo into the shower before bedtime. That’s every other Tuesday. Which usually, but not always, culminates in a bedtime conversation about how my sweet love is afraid of dying. I wish she was afraid of some bizarre kid thing like being eaten by a cotton candy monster so I could assure her that doesn’t happen, but naturally my girl has honed in on the creme de la crème of exististential fears as the fuel for her anxiety. I don’t know how to respond, besides assuring her she is healthy, she is safe and I am right here. And I am, right there holding her hand as she dozes off surrounded by stuffed animals.

So we’re navigating fear. And I am literally navigating the way to her therapist’s office, every other week. And as we do it all, life, motherhood and childhood, I am so grateful for the sparking-with-youthful-energy children’s minister. I am so grateful for every friend I can be real with, and for every neighbor I can text in the event of emergency (bless you all, you know who you are – or you will, when I need something). Ancient tribes and villagers had it right – rearing young humans is a team sport. Being humans is a team sport. And this teammate is tired. Sometimes all the teammates get tired.

I may need to do something that sounds impossibly bougie and infinitely reasonable at the same time. That is, hire a driver for next year to help get kiddo where she needs and wants to be. Hopefully a friend, but if not, someone who can become one. This is both a big deal and a little one. Little, because we’re talking about a few school pickups and maybe a few runs to and from sports practice each week. Big, because I didn’t think that was how I’d mom. But it won’t be the first part of our lives that’s not how I thought my mom life would roll. I thought I’d breastfeed exclusively. I thought I’d have more than one kid. I thought I’d put work on the part-time burner till the youngest of this hypothetical pack was in kindergarten. Turns out real parenthood and fantasy parenthood are very different ballgames. 

But I love our ballgame, even if sometimes I get wistful, frustrated and sad. Most of all, I LOVE my creative, smart, quirky, kind, fabulous little teammate who continues to teach me every single day how to live and not just theorize parenthood. 

And parenthood, like MLK’s staircase, requires faith. You don’t have to see the full staircase. You don’t have to see the full solution, or have that perfect answer in essay form. You just have to take the first step. And then, you keep going. 

Sports images by Keith JJ, cloud image by BiljaST, and chauffeur image by Tammydz. All from Pixabay.