Giant life changes, four children and a major career shift later, I still feel as though I haven't quite made the mark of being A GROWN UP. Maybe it's my definition of what being a grown up is: someone who's completely comfortable in their own skin. Content with their life's decisions. Utterly responsible at least 99% of the time. And that's so not me.
This morning is the perfect example of that. I began the day by slugging down coffee--always THE epitome of what a grown up did when I was kid--and listing out reminders, auto-pilot/broken record style to my kids. As I slapped tuna onto wheat bread (an attempt at healthy/responsible), I smudged out the little tiny sweet ants that have declared my kitchen counter their stomping grounds. I hate those ants. Really hate them. They won't go away, they're quick and they are this visible reminder that I'm not utterly responsible.
Buy Taro or something, my husband says. Yes, I know I need to. I just keep forgetting, and in the meantime, the ants keep marching.
So anyways, I waste too much time on full-front ant massacre, and it's time to run the kids to school. Mind you, I haven't brushed my teeth, my hair or put on a bra. This makes me a walking threat in three regards: I could potentially have to converse with someone, my one daughter is almost 13 and someone might SEE me with her, and I'm nursing my other daughter. She could cry and cause me to flood out the county.
We arrive at school, a private Christian K-12 smallish place, when disaster strikes. I drop off my eldest (no problem), and am pulling into the spot where my boys, 10 and 7, enter the building. The 10-year-old leaves for camp today, and the luggage had to arrive yesterday, so I'm thinking Kiss him goodbye and be done with it. That's well and good until I see that every other mom (and a few dads even) are walking their kids into their classrooms for an extended, heartfelt, we'll miss you sooo much goodbye. And the heavy dose of Mom guilt either required that I have an anxiety attack later this week while he's away, or I get out of the car and walk him to his room. Who really ASKS for an anxiety attack?
Zoom in on this picture, if you will. Mothers with lipstick, hair sprayed, Dads wearing ties, ready to leave for the office and one mom with sleep wrinkles on her cheek who smells sort-of like spit up. Guess which one I am.
Perhaps it's my own fault I'm not comfortable in my own skin. Maybe I need to take more time with it. Instead, though, I choose to grumble in my head about the freshly showered MaryKay Moms and secretly despise them for their sweet fragrance.
On my way out of the building, the elderly man who faithfully holds the door open for the kids in the morning stopped me to comment on my baby. As he cooed at her, an effect much worse than her crying slowy began to spread over my well-worn BGSU alumni sweatshirt. Now wet, humiliated, and more than a little tired, I climb into the minivan and head home.
I think I'll go take a shower. The steam has an amazing effect on the content with life's decisions thing.