Breathe, Girl

I don't have any advice to give. Not that you wanted it. But I wish I did have a magical button to push and release all of the motherly wisdom we all crave and need to survive. Or at least a small dose to swallow to help us through one more day.

I find that most of the motherly wisdom I desire or need doesn't have anything to do with motherhood at all, but with self. It all starts with me -- the worry, the stress, the anxiety, the emotions. Any trying moment in motherhood really boils down to how I choose to handle it. It's a me issue, not a mother issue.

Recently, I've been battling a lot of subconscious and very conscious stress. Worrying constantly about work and my "purpose" or destiny in the workforce. Fighting Mr. Ego again who keeps taunting me with, "Are you ever going to go back to work and BE somebody?" Threatening to rob me of my dreams. Of my potential. Will I ever see more of my work produced? Etc. etc...

And because of these internal arguments with Mr. Ego, I have "chosen" or "allowed" that stress to carry over to Cub. When he's being a typical one year old, testing his boundaries, expressing his likes and dislikes and pushing his independence, I find myself operating on a short fuse. Quick to snap at him. Quick to respond aggressively. Not physically harmful. But in ways that a one year old wouldn't and shouldn't understand. My attitude. My tone. And gestures. Everything that really makes ME look like the one year old!

This morning it came to a head:

Yes, I was frustrated about an ailment poor Cub has been suffering from. I was tired and frustrated for us both. Having to continue to hold a warm compress over his little eye. Having to keep him still from squirming, kicking and fussing.

But when I started lecturing him about how we'll never heal his eye if he continues "acting this way" and how all week long he's been fighting me and I'm tired of it, yada yada..." It occurred to me, this is about ME. This is not about the eye or his response to the warm compress. This is about me not working. About me being tired of the groundhog's day of being home with him. About me worrying if I'll ever make it as a writer. And every other insecurity about -- ME.

In my frustrated tears, I had to repent. I had to make the commitment that I will not transfer my internal struggles and stress over to Cub, my husband or anybody else. Yes, it will likely happen again. But I better work damn hard to avoid it. And furthermore, deal with the stress. Stop worrying. And TRUST. Breathe, girl! If I truly believe that God is in control and that He gives us (and puts) the desires of our heart, then I have to let Him be in control. Period.