On living in a fishbowl, and other parenting struggles: a stream of consciousness post

As I creep back onto the blogging scene, I'm reminded of something that I've struggled with quite a bit in the past.  I really think it can be all distilled down to a sin of pride, but that doesn't make it any less of a struggle.  If anything, it's more of a struggle when it's looked at that way - it requires heroic virtue to combat.

It's not what most people usually think of when they think of pride:  I don't at all have any misconceptions that I'm an amazing example of humanity, that I'm this incredible Catholic and mom and wife that others need to look up to or who even has it remotely figured out.

It's not that at all.  Yes, I'm happy to share what has worked for us in the past, or things that are going well in life.   But the one thing I really don't want to do is become one of those Pottery-Barn-Worthy bloggers who only have perfectly filtered and edited photos and whose children are always clean and wearing coordinated clothing in them.   Who have the clean homes and Pinterest parties, and always seem to have healthy, well-balanced, beautiful meals on the table for their children who actually will eat them.   Who never seem to have issues with sin and always look perfectly put together for Sunday (and daily) Mass, and whose children always sit perfectly still in the pew during mass.

That's not me.

I'm pretty sure that's not anyone, really.

I want to be truthful, showing you the good and the bad.   I want to not hold back and let you see the vulnerability and the tears of frustration and pain.   I want to let you see my kids who still have dinner on their faces while in their pajamas for bedtime, or their clothes with grass stains and clashing colors.

I want to be able to share the good and the bad about Mike's job - the joy of welcoming new life, and the struggle of never sleeping and missing out on 1/2 of family life.

I want to show you the beauty of our church, and also the struggle to not give up every week when the children misbehave.

I want to show you scenes like what are in front of me right now - sunshine and green grass and frog hunting and playtime while Mom taps away on the keyboard - but tell you about the struggles to get here.  The crying and screaming as I said no to the screens that we've all become so addicted to.   The possible yelling from Mom as the chores still weren't done after the third time asking.   The Instagram picture won't tell you all of that.

I want to be transparent and authentic. 

And, dagnabbit.  That's so hard to do.  It's so much easier to just show you glimpses that look perfect.  The sunshine and smiles and cuddles.   And keep the frustration and tears to myself.

But that's not real life.   This moment of sunshine was fiercely fought for.   I'm on my own this week, as Mike is working, and I'm tired.  The four year old isn't sleeping well at all (every 45 minutes, she's up and calling for me), which is keeping all of us up.   A tired mom has said yes to the electronic babysitter way too many times to count this week, and the screen detox has been painful today.   Part of me doesn't even want to try, knowing that rain is coming and we'll probably be stuck inside more than usual this week.   But then, I look outside and see the sunshine and know that it's something that I need to do.  So I grit my teeth and turn it off, and listen to the crying.

I sit in the pew, every Sunday, after being up for 3 hours, working constantly, just to get kids bathed and fed and dressed and ready for church.   It's important that we go, and that we take pains to make it "different" from everywhere else we go.   No play clothes.   No snacks.   Trying to instill a love for Jesus and for the mass as I do so - trying hard to not make the process a negative and a hassle, even as I struggle with thinking that same thing in my own mind.   Trying to make Sundays filled with feasting and laughter and relaxation.  No chores, no schoolwork, fancy foods.    We don't have family close enough by to make it special with get-togethers, so I have to do it on my own.   All the while knowing that that hour (or hour and a half) in the pew is one of the hardest workouts I get all week.  

Fighting the temptation to throw my hands up in the air give up.

Fighting the temptation to beat myself up, and cry on the way home.

Trying to focus on the oldest children, and their love and respect for the mass.   Knowing that we will get there, someday, with the little ones, but we need to fight for it, every single week.

And yet, I want to share.  I want to share this so that maybe, a connection can be made.   Maybe we'll see each other in these words, and recognize ourselves.   Maybe knowing that we aren't alone will help us get up and face the next time it gets hard.

But it's scary to share the negative. I'm afraid of what you might think.  I'm afraid of what you might say.  My pride wants me to only share the good and build up a reputation of being that amazing Catholic mom and wife.

There's so much riding on my words at times.  We're discerning another adoption.   Is there a chance that something I've shared here, like my PPA struggle, might make that impossible?  Yep.  Is there a chance that someone will see my struggle with the littles' behavior at mass and say, "There's no way that she could handle any more kids?"  Yep.   There is.  

We're giving a talk at church on Wednesday night.  In front of a group made up of our community members, we'll talk about NFP and how it's played out in our lives.  The good and the bad.   The change in Mike's practice of medicine.  While it's a topic I love, I struggle with the self-doubt.   The self-loathing.   The self-talk that accuses me of being a fake, of not being a good witness to the very truth that I'm trying to talk about.

I want to be authentic.

I want to tell the truth.

I want to witness to the Truth, even when I don't live up to it.

But fear keeps me from stepping out.  Fear of being accused of being hypocritical.  Fear of failure.   Fear of letting people down.  Fear dictated by pride.  

Every blog post is an act of revealing a little bit more about me, my family, and my life.  With revelation comes risks - some big, some small, all tangible.   Eventually, they'll all resolve in some way:  a new friendship, a loss of a different friendship; words of affirmation and connection, words of division and pain; love and loss.  

Every day, I sit down to write.  I jot down words and phrases and ideas on a notepad, and work on developing them into essays and posts.   Some make it to this screen, some sit untouched for years.   Some lead to tears:  tears of joy and tears of pain.  Some lead to sighs of relief.   Others lead to checking my email every five minutes to see if anyone has responded or I've ruffled feathers somehow.

And through it all, one thing is constant:   the prayer that my witness is authentic and effective.   That I'll point to Him more than I point to me.

"We need credible witnesses. And when we have no witness, perhaps life goes well, we earn well, we have a profession, a good job, a family … but we are men and women who are 'parked' in life; that is, we do not go ahead, we do not move on. Like conformists: everything is a question of habit, a habit that keeps us tranquil, we have what we need, nothing is lacking, thank God... Those who do not take risks, do not move on. Take a risk on noble ideas, risk dirtying your hands, risk just like the Samaritan in the parable took a risk. When we are more or less calm in life, there is always the temptation of paralysis. … Go towards problems, come out of yourself and take risks."

 And the coffee.

The coffee is constant, too.