Today was one of those days. Three of the four of us cried. And the only reason the fourth didn’t cry is because, well, it was Justin. Also he was working. It seemed that every little thing caused an argument or a meltdown in our house. Josie is learning what the word “No” means and how devastating the consequences can be, especially when it comes to rummaging through the pantry. Lucy is exploring the limits of language and inflection–and how rude she can be to Mommy before she is put in time-out. And Mommy was checked out–mentally and emotionally–so there was very little patience to go around. I yelled more today than I have in a week. At one point Justin poked his head out of his office and said, “Are you okay?”
No. No, I am not okay. Today is not going the way I wanted it to. And actually, I’m not very pleased with this week…or this season of life. My parenting is not going the way I wanted. My career (or lack thereof) is not going the way I wanted. My social life is not going the way I wanted.
You get the idea.
I was having a conversation recently with a friend about a mutual friend who had returned to work. We were happy for her, but seeing her dressed up, hair done, smiling with pride…was almost too much. It was like a reminder of some way that we had failed. We were moms but we weren’t using our degrees, contributing to our household income or you know, the world. We were both completely aware of the fallacy of this logic, but it still hurt. Why? Because we had expectations of what our lives would be like. Even the most rational of us have completely irrational expectations of how our life will go.
I never wanted to be a stay at home mom. I never wanted more than two kids. I never wanted to live in Northwest Ohio again. I never wanted to be the impatient, yelling, distracted, tired mom. The list goes on.
Missed expectations
Miraculously, we all made it to dinner last night. It was an easy meal, spaghetti and garlic bread. Everyone was calm and filled their bellies. I helped my husband with dishes and then, noticing the clock, slipped on my shoes and headed out of the house. Tonight was my first watercolor painting class. I’ve never been particularly good at art but I like watercolor painting with Lucy and the class was just three weeks for beginners. Why not, I thought. Anything to get me out of the house that doesn’t include a trip to the store.
I was easily the most inexperienced person in the class, but I didn’t care. I could sit still without being asked to do anything, and play with colors and brushes. I’m a perfectionist by nature, but watercolors don’t allow for perfection. Or rather, they redefine it. The art comes through play, beauty through experimentation. When you mix colors, your result may not be the shade you expected–or if it is, you probably won’t be able to recreate it later! There may be too much or too little water involved. Your precise brush stroke may produce a completely different effect the next time you bring it to the paper.
Full disclosure: I love Sharpie markers. If there was a Sharpie class, I’d take it. (Or teach it) There’s something so direct and final about them. Lines can be drawn, boundaries are clear, things are literally black or white. But if you make a mistake…well, there’s no going back, is there? I tend to approach parenting (and life in general) like writing with Sharpie markers. If something goes wrong (or rather, doesn’t meet my expectation), I cross it out and never return. If something goes well, I want to repeat it over and over.
I was surprised at how flexible watercolor painting was, by contrast. If I made a mistake, I could paint over it or turn it into something else. If there was too much water or paint in one place, I could use a dry brush to absorb the paint and find bits of white space again. Simple swirls of paint could become a distant thunderhead out at sea…or they could just be swirls of blue.
Agendas have no place in painting and expectations are optional.
As I painted, I reflected on our disaster of a day. How often had I (or my girls) lost my temper because things weren’t going the way I planned or expected? Were my expectations anywhere close to realistic? How engaged had I even been in our day, or had I checked out early, assuming it was a failure?
I feel safe with plans, directions, instructions, and lines. But parenting (and life in general) has very little of that. Once you get past the baby stage of repetitive eat-sleep routines, so much of life with kids is fluid. Maybe I needed to take a lesson from my paint class and be open to how the colors mix, what shape the brush creates, and where I need to add color or leave space in my day. Maybe I needed to look for the beauty created in my day, rather than the expectations checked off my list.
At class tonight, each table had a jar of brushes, palettes of liquid and dry watercolors, washi tape, different sizes of paper and, interestingly enough, one fine-tipped black Sharpie. As we worked on a specific design, the instructor said we could choose to use the Sharpie to add small details if we wanted. I liked that. It was like doing a mental reflection of the day and circling the good parts. And, it was optional. I could reach for it if I wanted to, or I could just sit back and see how the paint flowed.
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