Our day begins and ends in much the same way: All at once. The twinkle of those stars is shockingly interrupted with the pitter-patter of little feet, the dumping of Legos, the questions about when breakfast will be ready. Then we do our day, with everything that a single day can hold, and just like that it's time to lay it all down. And that is exactly what we do: We lay down the toys; we lay down the demands of the day, the questions and fort-building materials and desires for more dessert; and then we lay them down to bed.
And it is in that moment right there that we feel like we can finally breathe. Once they are finally, actually, and blessedly asleep, we can take a breath, pour a glass of wine, and celebrate making it through.
Because these days are wild. At the same time, a day can be chaotic and mundane, busy and never-ending. And these rhythms, the rhythms of feeding and playing and cleaning up and laying down for my children, are so much more exhausting than I ever thought they would be.
And yet, at the same time, they are more joy-filled, more complete, more life-giving than I ever knew they could be.
So it surprises me a little bit one day, when a friend is accomplishing grand things -- changing-others'-lives kind of things -- and instead of feeling joy at her success and life journey, I feel small. I feel less-than.
See, that particular day of mine had been spent engaged in the comically opposite of what she was doing: I had been potty-training my 2-year-old that day, one of the most unglamorous duties a parent can take on. Cute? Possibly. A milestone? Absolutely. But glamorous? No chance.
And while potty-training is not necessarily reflective of a typical day for us, it is certainly reflective of the season of life I am in right now: raising little kids, spending our days together as I do my best to raise them up loved and strong and hopefully decent human beings.
When I look at my typical day and compare it to my friend's typical day, my day seems so much simpler. No television appearances, no cross-country flights, no conferences, no name recognition.
If mothering is more than I ever thought it could be, how is it that some days I end up feeling like less?
Here's the underlying fear that sits at the back of these feelings (what are they -- envious? discontent? insecure? tired?). My fear is that I, as I am, am not enough.
Because sometimes I snap at my kids. Sometimes I worry about whether I should have encouraged creativity instead of getting frustrated with the mess. Sometimes I wonder if I got it right, how to discipline, if I have what it takes to do this well. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to follow the career path instead. Sometimes I wish I could just bounce back to my 25-year-old body.
Am I the only one to think those things? Am I the only one to worry and wonder and question if I am measuring up?
And measuring up to what, I wonder?
I'm not sure any of us actually knows what the measuring stick is, and so we keep running to find it, leaving us breathless. We keep score of all of the ways we don't measure up, reminding ourselves of what we need to convince others and ourselves that we are enough:
Lose 15 pounds.
Enroll the kids in the travel club team.
Have the neighbors over for a gourmet, gluten-free dinner.
Throw the swoon-worthy, Pinterest-level 5th birthday party.
Clean all of the clutter from the house and donate to charity.
Keep the laundry folded and put away.
Wow the boss with the thoughtful presentation.
Respond to all emails within 15 minutes.
Wake up at 5:30 a.m. to meditate/worship/work out/center yourself.
Wear cute clothes.
And it's just exhausting.
But here is what I have found within all the measuring and the comparing and the worrying: It's just not worth it.
So finish that cup of coffee; open your eyes to what you do have, the good you are doing; and give yourself some grace.
And that's the challenge, isn't it? To not keep score against ourselves, but to offer ourselves the same grace that we would offer our best friend. Don't for a second believe that the mundane and simple moments don't have purpose. Don't for a second think that you're not enough or that your work doesn't matter.
It all matters. The early mornings and the sleepless nights and the packing lunches and building forts and singing ABCs and teacher conferences and folding laundry and reading books right before they fall asleep. Right now, these ordinary, common moments are saturated in significance, and right now, you are enough and what you are doing matters.
Not just when we lose that baby weight. Not just when we turn in the homework folder on time. Not when we write a book. Not when we get a promotion, raise the children, or keep the house clean for longer than one hour. Not just when we're traveling and speaking and writing and building.
There's a certain discipline to being present in our days, and if we are constantly worried about what we're not doing, what we're not achieving... we're missing out on what is happening right in front of us.
Stop trying to keep up with anyone. Stop wishing you could just do that one thing a little differently and then you could be proud of yourself.
Take a breath and remind yourself that you, just as you are, are enough. These moments that you're living, even the hard ones, matter. Dole out grace upon grace.
The harsh truth is that we can't have it all.
But what we do have? It's pretty great.
Sarah Sandifer writes about her thoughts on life, motherhood, and marriage at www.thejellyjars.com