If you remember the Me who started writing this blog, you may have noticed a lack of… put-em-up, throw-em-down, fisticuff-type writing over the past year and a half. Which is strange, really, when you think about it because some of that year and a half weren’t especially easy. I had angry moments, of course, but they always passed quickly. I’ve never quite been able to put my finger on it.
I’m just about to finish Kristin Chenoweth’s book, A Little Bit Wicked. I’m pages from the bright pink covered end. And while the book initially sent me to a place I didn’t particularly want to be, I have loved almost every page of the book. She appeals to the musical theater dork in me, the “too liberal” Christian in me and the short girl in me. (Though, to be fair, she’s shorter than me. And very blonde. Very.) I came across this quote just now and despite having only fourteen pages left to read, I had to put the book down and write. (That’s when you know it is a good book.)
She wrote:
Life requires peace. Peace requires balance. And balance requires a certain amount of get-over-yourself.
Can I get a big old Amen from someone? Anyone? Amen.
I don’t know what exactly changed within me or even when over the course of the past two years. I haven’t lost the urge to fight; I’m still as feisty as ever. Just as my loving, patient (very, very patient) Husband. I’ll fight when I know the time is right or the cause is particularly worthy. Perhaps my screening method for said causes has been beefed up. Or, perhaps, I just don’t have the same wealth of time.
And, really, I think that’s what it comes down to in the end. Parenting, itself, requires a certain amount of get-over-yourself. Earlier this week, my oldest son finally turned on me and said, “I don’t love you, mommy.” Fine. Whatever. I still love him. He was just ticked off because I took away his playroom privileges for the rest of the day. I know, right? Mother Dearest and all that jazz. Sue me, kid. I dare you. And, sure, it stung. (Though, to be fair, he said it a month and a half ago to his daddy first at which point in time I thought, “Oh, I’m so glad he didn’t say it to me, first!”) But I got over myself. Anger makes people say and do things they wouldn’t normally do, three and a half year old cheeky-faced boys included. I got over myself and he loves me today just fine even though I have declared it a no-TV Saturday. (I swear, I’m the meanest mother alive.)
So, maybe it’s the time and energy spent parenting that have helped me get over myself. Or the time spent throwing myself into the work that I do. Or perhaps it was finding something for myself, finding my way back to the stage. Or perhaps it was finding a group of friends with which to spend some time once a week. Or perhaps it was a combination of everything.
Or perhaps it is the fact that I am no longer just a birth mother. For the longest time, I let that title, that role, define who I was in life. I would have fought to the death against anyone who tried to strip me of that title or insinuated in some way or another that I am not important to my daughter (or her family). I don’t find that need anymore; I simply pass on arguments of such nature. (Mainly, I don’t have time to indulge stupidity.) But, really, in my core, I know who I am. I know who I am to her. I know who I am to my parented sons. I know who I am to my husband, to my parents and to my friends. I’m learning again who I might be on the stage. I think I’ve learned, exceptionally well and (too often) the hard way, that getting over myself makes all of the stuff in life far more enjoyable.
Someday*, though I don’t look forward to it, the Munchkin will tell me, as my oldest son just has, that she doesn’t love me. Or that I’m not important. Or that she doesn’t want me in her life. I know, at this point in my life with everything I have been through and learned from those experiences, I will be able to handle it. It won’t feel particularly lovely, of course. I won’t wish for her to say it to me repeatedly, though she might. But I have enough peace and balance and experience getting over myself to know that she will just be processing some emotion of her own. It will be less about me and more about her finding that peace and balance and get-over-myself-ed-ness on her end. And if she wants time and space, I’ll offer it with the knowledge that she does love me and I do matter.
I don’t know how I got here or what exact number of experiences lead me to this point. (Though, I’d assume that my therapist should be thanked. Thank you.) But I’m glad to be here. I write about it not really for the general public but so that the next time I feel my peace shaken to its core, I can come back here and remind myself to get over myself.
Because there will always be a next time.
[* = like in the previously mentioned teen years. No? Yes.]