Running In Pajamas

Something has changed in my soul in the last year.  I can't exactly put my finger on what or when the change occurred, but at some point I grabbed hold of this idea that I'm not just a mom or that I should be something more.  I felt those words, heard them, said them, over and over and over throughout this mothering journey.

I'm just a stay-at-home mom.

I should be doing more.

I just do the laundry/make the beds/pack the lunches.

I should be spending more time with my kids/husband/etc.

You have four kids and I just have one!

If you can do this with no family around then I should be more than able to...

It's lies.  All of it.  There's not "just" or "should" in life.  This is not a motivational poster, this is my heart.  There's this great line in the movie "Glory Road" where the coach is telling his black players that no one can take their dignity because it's inside of them.  People can only take it away if you give it to them.

Every single time as a mother I've said "I'm just..." or "I should be..." I've created a space of discontent, doubt, self-loathing.  A space for the Enemy of My Soul to come in and steal away something that is mine by right.  My joy.  My peace.  My happiness.  My relationship with my husband.  My interactions with my children.  My ability to cope.  My claim as a beautiful mess that was created in the image of my Maker for such a time as this; crushed Cheerios, baby spit-up, frazzeled hair and all. 

When I compare myself to someone else's version of what life should be, could be, or even is, I'll never measure up.  I will always come out on the short end of that stick... and then I'll use that same stick to beat myself up further because I didn't measure up.  The cycle is vicious.

I loved this video.  It so spoke to me that not matter how many defects I see in myself, my children don't see them.  Em doesn't see the stretch marks on my thighs, she sees the lap that she always wants to be sitting in.  Cooper doesn't see the laundry as a measuring stick of his mamma's self-worth, he just sees a soft pile to jump into.  Harper doesn't see the dark circles under my eyes from sleepless nights, she just sees cheeks she can squish together with her suspiciously sticky hands.  And Zora doesn't see the stomach that does not look like it should, she just knows how soft and squishy and perfect it is to snuggle into.

I'm not even remotely close to the example I want for my children, but I do know, for a fact, one thing:  the more I compare myself to what I think my life should be, the further away I get from the example I want to be.  Period.  I can either beat myself up in my own head and defeat myself before the race has even started, or I can just start running, flabby-limbed, unprepared and still in my pajamas... probably with bits of some meal stuck to me.  Because even in my pajamas, I can run.  As a friend once said, "Any day you can put a check-mark under the 'run' column that makes you a runner.  Doesn't matter if it took you an hour to run one kilometer.  You still RAN."   I want my kids to see that I will run MY race, the one before JUST me.  It's not going to be pretty, it's never going to be perfect, but it has MY starting point and it has MY stopping point and it has mountains and valleys that only I can claim, no one else, and I'll make it... eventually.