I've been in a funk for the last 10 years or so, and recently have contemplated the reasoning for this. On par life has been very good to me, I have an amazing husband who is my partner in all areas of life, two healthy smart pesky children, a beautiful home, a nice automobile, never are we lacking for anything. And yet. There's something missing. And I've recently discovered that the missing thing is me.
I look at my few friends and many acquaintances and see that on the surface they seem to be plugging along without this agita. They go out, have no apparent shortage of things to talk about, live similarly comfortable lives, and spakle like champagne. I feel like an open bottle of Prosecco that has been forgotten after the orange juice ran out for mimosas. Flat.
If I were to have a conversation with you at this point in my life I would ask you questions and pray fervently that you like to talk about yourself. That you have seen independent movies. That you have strong opinions on local politics. That you have some crazy relative that miraculously recovered from an unusual illness using accupuncture and a medical intuitive. That you have a life outside your children.
Because, see, I don't seem to have much of one outside of mine. And for the most part, this is fine with me. And yet.
I made this deal with myself and my husband when we married. Before we met I was resigned to not being a mother but being the coolest aunt my neice and nephew would know. But our whirlwind romance was met with the realization that my future husband would make a great father so we would have that adventure in our lives. Both of us had a less than ideal childhood, so finding some measure of success at parenthood was of paramount importance to us both. We had success early with a daughter and a few years later with a son. Between the two we uprooted out lives and moved halfway across the country. My husband had been laid off, and we decided to open up the job search nationwide. When he found an opportunity in a small midwestern town with which my side of the family had history, we decided to make the leap. The cost of living was quite a bit different than the large metropolitan area that we were leaving so we also decided that my new role would be as a stay at home mother. This intrigued me and terrified me. I think maybe I knew what I would be giving up. Yet what I would receive, and what I would be able to give to my family seemed worth it to me. No more rat race. No more 40 plus hour work weeks with the racing around to do all shopping, laundry, and cleaning on evenings and weekends. Now I could give my kids the attention I always craved but wasn't given by my working single mother. Now my hard working husband could relax on weekends, maybe play golf. It would be glorious. And yet.
I waited with bated breath for him to get home so I could talk to an adult. Weekends I needed time for myself. For what I don't know, maybe to go to the bathroom without interruption. Maybe to read more than half a page of a book without someone needing something. Maybe just something to remind me of the individual human that I am. Or that I was. Fast forward ten years or so, and I am proud to say that I feel like I give my kids the attention that they need. I work hard to be thoughtful when it comes to my family. I try to make their lives as pleasant as possible without putting them in some kind of bubble that will burst when they go to college. They have help with their school work when needed. They are involved in extracurricular activities both in and outside of school. They are athletic. The girl volunteers every week at a local food bank. They are good kids. I know who they are. I'm just not sure who I am outside of them any more. What do I enjoy? Driving them to their various activities? Yes, I now get to go to the bathroom and read without interruption, but the periods of time I have in which to do this seem to be narrow. And my attention span seems to be so small. Because there's a next task. Always. And although this is not always ideal I am grateful for it. Grateful that my kids are healthy and involved in their lives. Grateful to have the opportunity to help them and parent them the way I wanted to be parented but could not be. Grateful that we are so blessed to be able to afford the money, time and attention to them. My angst for my missing self cannot be blamed on them. It is solely on me. On my decisions. On my desires to give to them. I do so without (much) complaint. I just need to take the time between soccer games and choir rehearsals to look for me. Again.
I tease that I am on a ten year plan for my midlife crisis. I don't want to rush things, I want to be thoughtful on how I handle it. My daughter says that she feels like my meditation and spiritual curiosity is part of my midlife crisis. Perhaps. I like to think of it as finding a way back to who I am as a person, and letting that shine through. A lovely bottle of champagne full of verve and life and funny stories of crazy realatives making miraculous recoveries.
No comments:
Post a Comment