Big Mom Energy

“She hasn’t responded,” I tell my husband, looking at my phone. “Promise me you’ll text the other babysitters?”

He nods, making his way to the garage with our two daughters, their backpacks, his own computer bag, and their water bottles.

“Seriously, I have a call at 2:30pm tomorrow and I need to work, I can’t be watching T just because her school gets out early.”

I’m pretty sure he gave me a final eye roll as he yelled, “love you!” over his shoulder but I can’t be positive.

“Love you too,” I mutter, sounding not so much loving, as resentful.

The plants that my daughters brought home as school projects, languish in their respective graveyards, one outside, one just inside the sill. And the coffee maker bubbles along cheerfully, letting me know that it’ll be ok.

It’ll ALL be ok.

Easy for you to say, you have literally one job.

That’s true. But have you ever thought of how boring that is?

At this point, it’s definitely me having a conversation with myself rather than my actual Keurig (at least, I sure hope so). And yes, that would be boring, if my job was my only job. Or my kids were my only job. Or my hobby (writing) was my job.

BORING!

So instead, I choose to be overwhelmed.

No one’s forcing you to write, says the coffeemaker.

That’s true, I answer. But then if I didn’t everything else would feel that much bigger. You know how cutting a pie in quarters makes each piece more significant than cutting in 16ths? Or even just eighths? Yea. Like that.

Ok, but then what about your need to workout all the time. Maybe that’s not necessary.

You don’t understand, I think, removing my coffee mug from under the sputtering drip and reaching for the milk. If I don’t work out, I’ll go crazy.

But maybe you wouldn’t be at the brink of nuts-so if you didn’t try to do so much. De-clutter your life. The way this house needs de-cluttering.

I look around the counters which sport stacks of mail, endless supplements, and all kinds of junk I could just throw away - but won’t.

Simplify, Hon. Think about your writing. Not so much extra fat there right? Why can’t you live like that?

I put the milk back in its spot on the inside of the fridge door and push it closed with a satisfying shove.

You don’t understand, I think.

No, YOU don’t understand.

Sitting down at my computer I see a few work emails that need responses. Some Slack messages that need acknowledgement. Thumbs up, and heart it. And then I exhale, getting to the emails that warrant responses. How can I write this sounding like I care, but not too much.

My phone buzzes when I’m on the second one.

I got a sitter. Husband texts.

Moments later the favored sitter texts me back. I’d love to!

I sigh telling hubby to tell the backup we don’t need her.

See? I tell the corner appliance that is now still. It all works out. That’s why I don’t need to simplify my life.

Silence.

The day goes by uneventfully. Though I get up more than I need to, to stretch which is really to pace and think about ALL THE THINGS. But I do not, in fact, make it to the gym. Nor am I able to cook dinner due to my child’s request to play outside as soon as we park at home.

See? I tell myself. It’s alright. I can do it all.

As F shoots her pink basketball again and again through the net, swish, backboard bounce, swish, and my sister tells me about something on the other end of the phone, I mentally inventory the things that need to happen this week. The meetings, the reach outs, the writing, the pickups, the extracurriculars, the food prep, and the workouts.

And then I realize that the things I want to take off my plate are exactly the things that can’t be removed.

Well do you want to get rid of the other stuff? I ask myself.

And for once, there’s silence.

“Mommy!” F runs up to me. “I’m ready to go inside.”

Despite being technically evening, it is indeed hot. I observe the precious beads of sweat across her nose bridge and the redness to her cheeks I cannot definitively identify as either rosiness, eczema, or a sunburn.

“Alright Baby, let’s go.”

When we’re inside she flops onto the couch by her napping sister and stares off into the distance.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, moving their lunchboxes to unload them.

“Nothing. Just relaxing,” she says.

There’s no apology.

“Sit with me,” she looks up from her zone out.

And I do. For a few minutes.