I recently finished reading the book Grace Not Perfection by Emily Ley. Ms. Ley suggests viewing the times in our lives, whether they are challenging or not, as a “season”. I’ve recently followed her suggestion and it’s working for me.
One year ago, I was struggling to get by on three hours of sleep and doing the best I could to nurse a newborn baby. That season lasted three months.
My present season: spending close to 12 hours a day with a toddler who wants to get into everything and does not embrace long naps and hates not having 100 percent of the attention on him.
Both of the seasons I’ve referenced have been challenging, but I find myself complaining a lot about this one. I’ve been a mother for close to 365 days and I’m facing the reality that the worry, anxiety, and the perpetual state of being overwhelmed are going to stay around for a while.
My son goes through frequent sleep regressions and I turn into a mombie the rest of the week.
We’re in that bottle to food transition phase and this little man usually has a bottle or a meal in his mouth close to 8 times a day. I’m pretty sure I’m failing at this whole bottle/food/sippy cup transition (that’s another story). A majority of the day is spent preparing and serving food, followed by picking food off the floor and cleaning dishes.
There are so many time-consuming responsibilities: messy diaper changes, nightly baths, and the never-ending pile of laundry.
The time to myself is few and fleeting and I feel out of control. It feels like the moment one fire is put out, another one is blazing. I don’t know how the mamas of more than one do it.
We’ve been told time and again how time flies when raising kids. In the coming months, my present challenges will be replaced by different ones and I might even reminisce wistfully about how easy I had it now. That is why I’m changing my perspective. I know this phase of life (both mine and his) is only temporary. Soon he won’t need the middle of the night cuddles, he’ll be cleaning off his own plate, he’ll bathe himself and maybe, just MAYBE he’ll do his own laundry (one can dream). I know I’ll be pacing the floor 14 years from now when he’s spending a Friday night with his friends from high school, anxiously awaiting his phone call for me to pick him up. I don’t even know how I’m going to function when he leaves home and goes to college.
I’m trying my best to relinquish control and allow life to just happen, and it feels wonderful. I’m not saying that the stress and worry are completely gone but when I’m on the verge of collapsing after looking at the Everest-like pile of dishes in the sink, I tell myself, “This is just a season.”