Elise Stephens's Blog, page 7

Pushing On/Pushing Back

In my twenties, running as fast and hard as I could seemed like the best way to ensure I was climbing my ambition in the right direction.

But now, more than ten years past my college graduation…I’m seriously assessing the cost of such behavior and asking myself,

What do I pay for in mental fragility, depletion of emotional reserves, temper with my kids, and closeness with my husband when I run myself completely out of proverbial steam?

A therapist recently gave a lecture at my mom’s group and shared a story of helping an overwhelmed couple restructure their life (which wasn’t going at all like they wanted it to) into something nearer the life they both hoped for. She instructed them to imagine family memories they hoped to make in the next five years, ten years, fifteen years, etc. Then to reverse-engineer their current life to make space for making these memories.

Begin with the memories you want to have.

I’m endlessly discovering I’ve made myself a slave to hyper-efficiency, trying to optimize and maximize the productivity possible in the time I’ve allocated for my personal work.

During a self-assessment of emotional and mental health last week, I tested into a dangerously-high category of burnout.

Time for a change, am I right?

What memories do I want to make? What do I yearn to remember when I look back on these years? What do I want to be remembered for?

I want to be a mother who is present and delighted with her children while she is with them. So I’ll make focused time to *be* with my kids. I’ll strive to tidy up after I’ve played a bit.

I want to teach my son and watch him make learning connections as we do hands-on activities like cooking, art, and gardening. I’ll save some of these projects to intentionally do at a slower speed with my son at my side, learning to be my helper.

I want to remember parenting as a teamwork sporting event, working with my husband, finding times to laugh together and to be vulnerable in our struggles. So I’ll be honest with him and I’ll look for ways to be silly and lighten the mood.

I want to be a creative writer who is neither stifled nor depressed, which means chances to write and dream and build and create the worlds of my fiction. So I’ll continue finding and carving out time for this in my week.

I want a healthy mind, refreshed and unstrained. (I don’t want piles of memories of screaming at my kids or backing the car into a post, or dissolving into furious tears…all of which happened in the space of one day last week). So I’ll plan regular, restful activities for myself that aren’t just staring at a movie screen at night, but truly restorative activities for me. A weekend trip to a museum followed by lunch–by myself. Coffee and a pastry at my favorite Italian cafe.

For a goal-oriented and driven person such as Elise, I run a real risk of tucking my chin to my chest and charging ahead so effectively that…I might actually miss everything else in the blur. And someday soon, my energy will give way and I’ll be down in the dirt, wondering if I’ll find the strength to stand again.

Why this change in perspective? I’m pretty sure a good chunk of it was due to having kids. My four-year-old and one-year-old remind me constantly that I can’t love them well or be a fun-to-be-around partner for my husband when I’ve burned through all my daily reserves by 6 pm every day. (Welcome home from work, honey! I’m a basket-case!!!)

I’ve recently begun reading the book Rest: Why You Get More Done When You Work Less by Alex Soojung-Kim Pang. I found it while scrolling through “available now” audiobooks at my library, and took it for a sign. The author draws some very sobering connections between rest and effective, insightful work (“work” defined as the stuff we were made to do, that we feel is our calling or purpose or particular passion). The author insists that work and rest are not polar opposites, but rather complementary and equally necessary elements to healthy, vital human life and creativity. Pang laments the American tendency to wear “overworked” as a badge of honor. Humans aren’t meant to live like this.

I, for one, am personally tired of recognizing some issue in my psych-emotional health, a place where growth is truly needed, and then doing nothing fruitful toward addressing it.

So. I acknowledge I am burning out. Yes, this is normal for hundreds of thousands of parents. But normal does not mean healthy, nor does it mean what’s best for me and my family (another quip from the therapist’s lecture).

I want to strive for best. Not settle with normal. I’ve made a list of activities that are not designed to be productive. Simply restful, restorative, joyful, invigorating, and stimulating to my mind. I’ll aim to do one once a month. I’ll also set a limit of 2-3 nights a week in which work takes place after dinner. I’m sick at heart from putting my kids to bed and then rolling up my sleeves for chores once dinner is put away.

I’m aiming for small changes. Doable changes. And a more compassionate heart toward the mind and body that carry me through life, so that I can be a long-distance runner in my life and career, instead of a sprinter.

Happy New Year, everyone! May your goals be worthwhile and achievable!

XO

Take Care

Having the second baby has made me slow down. A lot. My new normal has squeezed me toward ultra-focused sessions of writing and drafting in the afternoon and a running list of priorities that I update daily.

My household chores have been broken down into a monthly and weekly rotation. I prep my dinners on one particular afternoon a week, and I plan-plan-plan so that the important things that I truly value aren’t left behind in the dust of chaos of raising two young children.

My baby is crawling now. And eating everything on the floor. And making a bee-line for the toilet bowl when the bathroom door is left open.

My four-year-old is learning to fold laundry (hallelujah!) because I’m hiding jelly beans in the clothes (thanks for the tip, Mom!). He’s gaining traction in his understanding of letters and their meaning. I see the world of books unfurling its first beautiful page to him.

I am striving to view my youngsters and their stream of constant interruptions as opportunities to meet them with love and grace—to allow myself and my expectations of myself to change. To not push myself too hard with my daily to-dos. To delight in each small academic achievements of my boy. To feel the cosmic greatness of an after dinner chase scene in which I run after my kiddos with a cloth and wire tunnel on my head.

My life is inching out of mayhem and into a semblance of order. I can actually predict my schedule with moderate accuracy. My evenings are not a consistent heap of vegetation on the couch after the monsters are tucked into their recharging stations. My mind is gently stretching its wings as it comes to trust this bit of restored freedom and rest. And I feel I’m finally back in a place where loving others (the act of loving, not the momentary feeling) is possible again.

I want to be part of the sisterhood that says, “You’re hurting. Let me bring you dinner.” Or “You’re lonely. Come on over to my house when your kids are up from their naps.” Or, “You need a break. I’ll do your dishes while you take a long shower and pretend you’re at the spa.” I hate feeling trapped in the weeks and months of living in a moment-to-moment rush where deep-breathing is something I can only manage on my yoga mat in the pre-dawn.

My time is not unlimited, nor is my schedule empty, but my heart is filling. The waters of my mind are clearing. My hands have slowed enough to set down my dish sponge and baby wipes and instead grasp a sister’s hand as I say, “Let’s do this together.”

We were made to take care of each other.

Stand Up: (A mental health reminder for introvert parents)

I’ll rush to defend a friend, but cringe and sometimes fall silent when it comes to defending myself.

I once loved to argue. I am still easily riled up.

When it comes to protecting time to myself, to write, to sleep, to speak to no one, I am apologetic yet fiercely determined.

I explain to my husband that my attitude of distant exhaustion is not so much a reflection on him as it is a dried up, empty-tank-feeling in me.

I can’t decide whether I do a bad job of standing up for myself or if I’m just in the throes of how *difficult* it is to actually stand up for myself as a mother of two young children.

“What are you looking forward to when the kids are older?” my husband asks me.

He has already told me he’s anticipating hikes and boy scouts with our eldest. I’ve made a reference to my eagerness to learn at all over again when I begin homeschooling my son. Then, with a deep sigh, I say “Is it horrible that I’m really just looking forward to having more time to myself?”

I don’t want to go join a convent. (Though a week in one would be amazing!) I don’t want to leave my kids at my mom’s and drive to Canada (okay, last month, there were several panicked days when the idea stuck to me) and I don’t actually wish that I had a different life altogether, I just feel like the fight to protect a little space for myself, to preserve a few minutes for writing in my day, a snatch a sliver of time to exercise my body, is more effort than its ultimately worth.

I looked at my face in the mirror the other day and thought, “Okay, I see it. I’m aging.” And I wondered if I should feel some other emotion than resigned. My new beauty slogan has been “the most beautiful thing on your face is your smile” which I think is a paraphrase of Mother Teresa.

This is what I’m trying to say today—I don’t think that standing up for yourself has to look like a heroic, top-of-the-cliff-with-your-hair-flapping-in-the-wind kind of moment. I don’t look like Rosie the Riveter every day of my life. But I love myself. I love who I am after I’ve finished a new short story. I love the excitement that flows through me when I’ve finished organizing some part of my life. I love the gentle grace of a weeded garden bed and the peace that settles on me when I glimpse it from my window. These moments of preservation for my art and my sanity are not extraneous time-sucks. The non-essentials just might be the essentials. And if I don’t successfully protect them every single time, that’s okay, too.

Because I might just be living the hardest year of my life. (A mother of four told me that her first year with two kids was her more difficult, and I think I’ll take her word for it).

So I’ll keep standing up for myself. I’ll try to defend this tired, worn-out woman, and keep finding ways to nourish and delight her spirit. I’ll do my best to shield her time from busywork and facebook binges, from disorganized bouts of spinning her wheels, and also especially from moments of self-condemnation. Because she really is doing her best. And “best” is not perfect. It’s usually messy.

Stand up for yourself when you can. I say this especially to us parents who are used to giving and giving and giving to our kiddos. Find something that delights you. Rest when you can, even if it’s ten minutes on your back in the living room listening to a white-noise app. (Yes. I do this.)

So I’ll keep standing up for myself. I’m okay knowing I don’t have to look like Wonder Woman while I’m doing it. I’ll just try to keep some semblance of a smile on my face so that I can be beautiful the way Mother Teresa sees it.

I’m worth the fight. My heart and my mind are worth the fight. I want to stay filled up and strong for my husband and kids.

So I’ll keep standing up for myself.

The Art of the Do-Over

What would you do over, if you could?

My husband and I were recently talking about things we truly wished we could do over again. He’d wished he’d attended high school prom with the girl who’d asked him. I wished I’d actually dated a particular boy in my senior year of high school, despite my parents’ objections—because, looking back, I’m pretty sure he was my first love. But I was an extremely obedient daughter and I did what I thought was best at the time.

Do-overs. Regret is a slow, sweet poison that we enjoy as a self-stew (because we’re complicated creatures), but the truth is, most regrets are pointless unless we use them to wise-up or, even better, go try to fix a past wrong through an action we take in the present.

Yeah. Like messaging an old friend on facebook out of the blue and apologizing for a painful mistake I’d made. In my case, it was poorly executed judgment from a position in which I should have been impartial. And although the talk was totally awkward, it ended with kind words and exchanging photos of our children—peace offerings.

Regrets and wishes for do-overs give me the reminder I’m not static, living my life on one unwavering course. I screw up, I hurt people, I act with oblivious carelessness, but you know what’s really encouraging? Apologizing has got a hell of a lot easier. I can’t explain it. Maybe my pride got majorly deflated in college after someone called me out for gossiping. (Yep. That stopped me in my tracks. I had an artificial fever for about 24 hours. Pure shame). Or maybe the art of begging forgiveness truly grows easier with practice, just like everything else.

The conversation about do-overs left me uplifted, almost like a pep-talk. I saw that my regrets had altered how I live now, guiding me toward what is truly valuable, exhorting me to embrace integrity, honesty, transparency and awkward humility.

I like to think that God is sanding down my rough edges so that the person I’m becoming is more loving, less rushed, and porous to the reasons for joy and laughter that surround me daily.

Dare I ask…What would you do over? Does your do-over bleed into anything you might do today that would heal the world, even in a small way?

Beauty will save the world, you guys. I believe it.

I See You (a Father’s Day letter)

Beloved,

I see you. Up in the morning with the little one smiling on your shoulders as she rides through the house in the hiking backpack carrier that you wanted for your birthday. You yearn to bring our babies along on your outdoor adventures. The beauty of that desire does not escape me.

I see you. Curled up on the couch in the morning light with the baby snuggled into the hollow of your chest and neck, sleeping in peace and safety. The empty milk bottle sits on the coffee table, a testimony of our teamwork, sharing her midnight feedings.

I see you. Rushing home, changing your clothes, diving into last-minute dinner prep. You talk to our preschooler with loving interest. He knows he’s important and precious. You sing and make silly faces at our baby. She knows daddy is fun and safe and reliable.

I see you. Laboring after sunset, building shelves, painting doors, sawing metal rods to fit the closet. You work tirelessly and gently. You don’t snap at me or speak tersely at the end of the long day. You give as if it doesn’t hurt or wear you thin. How is that possible?

I see you. Smiling at me from across the kitchen, admiring me and finding me beautiful, desirable, even in those moments when I’m frantically scrubbing dishes or mopping spit-up off of the floor. You see beyond my harried exhaustion and admire my eternal, unchanged self leaving me astonished and humbled. Ashamed, too. Because there are many days I can’t hope to be as good a partner to you as you are to me.

I see you. Holding my hand, kissing my lips, meeting my eyes with acceptance and grace. Together, we have lost unborn children, become landlords, traveled to Europe, constructed homes in blistering heat, birthed two little humans, hiked tropical jungles, grieved the death of loved ones, collaborated on art, co-led a Bible study, savored live theater, blended our literary tastes, pulled each other back from black depression, designed a place for creative community, fought and made-up and stonewalled and lashed out and begged for forgiveness, sat still and held each other close while we witnessed a river flowing past us.

I see you. The father of my children. All five of them. “Father” is just one of the important roles you play. But it’s never been more valuable to me than it is now.

Happy Father’s Day. I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone but you.