Wrong Turns

For the most part, I hate surprises. It makes sense given that I’m an anxious perfectionist who likes preparation and control. Steve knows this, which is why I was surprised when he decided to surprise me with a weekend getaway with my best friend from college. This might be the one surprise that immediately brought me immense joy and excitement. We both knew I desperately needed a reset.

I also needed to celebrate. I wanted to celebrate my officially being done with breastfeeding, my surviving Bub’s first year in school, and my first time being away as a mom of two.

It was a glorious weekend with a dear friend who has known me since I was in my teens. Eating delicious food, walking around Chicago on an absolutely gorgeous Saturday, and having soulful conversations. We made memories I want to relive over and over again in my head.

Throughout the weekend, a theme continued to pop up. I kept taking turns that I initially thought were wrong but were ultimately the right ones to take. Taking a wrong turn out of my own neighborhood when I left to pick her up from the airport, my Google Maps losing reception while in the trenches of Lower Wacker Drive, missing an exit on my way home – they all felt like mistakes at the time. Mistakes I immediately beat myself up about out of habit.

But. The wrong turn out of my own neighborhood ended up getting me to the airport at the exact time she was walking out. My Google Maps losing reception forced me to trust my gut and lead us out of the belly of the beast. Missing my exit led me down the scenic route – one that I’ve always wondered about but never took the time to take.

Wrong turns aren’t really wrong turns. They’re where we’re supposed to be and we just don’t know it at the time. There are no mistakes in life, only learnings.

48 hours away from the mental load of being a mother, a wife, a worker. I was reminded that I am more than these labels. I am more than my right and wrong turns. This weekend, I took a breath. I reset, caught up and now, I feel whole again. I finally feel like my life is headed in the right direction.

In a Nutshell

This Mother’s Day was motherhood in a nutshell for me. A day of highs and lows.

I’m sick again with a cough I caught from Bub, who caught it from preschool last week.

I snapped at Bub this morning for not washing his hands when I asked him to, after he laid on the garage floor.

I was hungry and cranky when I snapped at Steve because I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

While in the kitchen making lunch, I felt guilty for ignoring G, who was in the living room crying and clawing at Steve to try to get to me.

I held G in my lap as I tried to eat my eggs and kimchi.

I was exasperated when Bub wanted me to carry him everywhere.

On the other hand, Steve did everything he could to make me happy.

After I put G down for her morning nap, I got special 1:1 time with Bub when we went to the forest preserve together.

We had an impromptu family dance party before the kids took their afternoon naps.

Both kids napped at the same time and woke up at the same time.

We managed to get out of the house this evening. It was a gorgeous weekend weather-wise.

At bedtime, Bub, completely unprompted, said, “Happy Mother’s Day. I love you.”

Even the hard parts of motherhood would be easier if every day was Mother’s Day.

Focus

I often feel like I have some sort of attention deficit disorder as a parent. It’s difficult for me to focus on my kids for more than a few seconds before my brain starts to wander. Even when Bub is doing something hilarious to get my attention. Even when G is cooing and smiling in my face. As soon as I realize I’m distracted, I feel the guilt swoop in. I’m a horrible mother for not paying attention to my adorable children right in front of me. How could I not see the gifts before my very eyes? The ones that only last a moment before they’re gone, sometimes forever. They’ll only be little for so long. Focus, Linda! Focus! The judgy, anxious, negative thoughts start to cloud my brain, replacing the random distracted ones that were there seconds before.

The older I get, the more memories my brain collects, which means the more memories my brain can wander to. The more I’m with my kids without a break, the more my brain wanders, because I haven’t given it the time and space to wonder. I used to be able to think about anything I wanted without any guilt.

Honestly, I’m not made for this. “This” being parenting. And because I’m not made for this, I don’t think I’m cut out for it. All my life, I’ve let myself think deeply about things that I want to think about - selfishly. When I became an adult, as soon I wanted to do something, I, more often than not, did the thing that I wanted. Perfectly conditioned to be self-centered by my family, my education, the media, and society at large.

As soon as my kids entered the picture, my world shifted to revolving around them. Physically, mentally, emotionally, logistically, financially. It’s a true mindf***. Thirty years of thinking only of myself and all of a sudden, I’m not able to do that anymore? That’s hard.

What, I’m supposed to be able to stare at a baby for hours now? I’m instantly supposed to be able to play make-believe for hours on end? Asking me to do these things when I’ve had time for myself is challenging, let alone having to do them on a day without any breaks. Yet, I feel immense pressure to enjoy it. You’re going to miss it when it’s gone. There’s that inner critic again.

I wish I had gone to “Parenting School” before having kids. This hypothetical school would wake me up at all hours of the night and time me at how fast I could change a diaper. It would teach me all the “Daniel Tiger” songs I’d need to know for any task or emotion. It would quiz me on how to make a proper bottle of formula. I’d get hands-on training on how to safely buckle a toddler in a car seat. And, the final exam would be to do all of this every day for three months straight while the sound of a crying baby played loudly in the background.

One of the most surprising aspects of parenting is, perhaps, how mundane it can be. Repeatedly building blocks, reading board books, and singing “Row Row Row Your Boat” is…boring and mind-numbing. Four years ago, I could travel anywhere I wanted at the drop of a hat. I could go out to restaurants on a whim. I could stay out late without an ounce of guilt. Now the most exciting part of my day is going to bed without crying.

I became a parent without any training. Zero conditioning whatsoever. So, when I start to feel guilty for not being able to focus on playing Baby Skye in a pretend Paw Patrol scenario with Bub because my brain keeps thinking about a work email, an anxious thought, Timothée Chalamet at the Golden Globes, and the rice that can’t boil over on the stove, I’m going to give myself a break.

It’s no question that parenting is relentless, but how do I stay present in the relentlessness? It’ll take practice, discipline, and more mental stamina than I ever could have imagined. Being present is a practice. Being present is a practice. Being present is a practice.

33, Be Good to Me

I’ve wanted to make Flo Braker’s buttermilk cake for over a year, ever since I heard about it on the Home Cooking podcast. The podcast has been a great source of comfort for me during the pandemic. I listen to it almost every day. Apparently, rewatching movies or shows, or in my case, listening to the same music (hi, Phoebe Bridgers) and podcast over and over is a way for anxious people to control their emotions in a world that feels out of whack.

For my birthday this year, I was determined to make this buttermilk cake. A week before, I remembered to buy buttermilk and cake flour. Yesterday, I sent Steve to the store to buy butter and parchment paper.

He came back with salted butter and wax paper. Close, but not the same.

Also realizing I didn’t have a hand mixer and that my butter wasn’t at room temperature, I gave up on this double-layer cake with chocolate sabayon frosting being picture perfect.

At 10 pm on a Saturday, Steve and I deliriously giggled our way through dolloping lumpy cake batter into misshapen muffin cups and mixing whipping cream by hand until our arms hurt. The mini cakes looked like they were sat on, but they were buttery and delicious. After 12 minutes of whipping the cream, it suddenly and miraculously stiffened. And shockingly, we had fresh strawberries in the fridge, which we almost never do.

We laughed and ate until our stomachs grumbled hurt.

“I’ll remember this when I’m old,” I told Steve.

Making this cake was somewhat symbolic of the year I’ve had. Riddled with panic attacks, triggered by not being the perfect parent, 32 has taught me that my mental health has taken a toll and needs tending to. Perfectionism is what I continue to strive for and when life isn’t perfect, I beat myself up for it. The chronic guilt has cancelled a lot of the inner work I had done before I had a baby. Should’ve, Could’ve, Would’ve pepper my thoughts relentlessly.

But through it all this year, Steve has been there for me. Somehow, he makes me laugh even when I don’t think I ever will again.

I hope 33 is more of the latter laughter and less of the former guilt. I hope 33 is onwards and upwards and not constantly feeling downtrodden by my own thoughts. I hope 33 is peace and not panic.