I accidentally skipped two steps while walking down my staircase. Like, I legit stepped over them like they didn’t exist. As my foot landed on the floor, I felt a pang of pain on my sole. Even worse? I did the same damn thing 15 minutes later on the same staircase.
What gives? Stress, yo. I am a working mom who is venturing into full time work again, and putting her son in daycare despite my anxiety over Evan’s separation anxiety. I am always in my head, yo.
How will Evan cope? How will I? This new chapter in my life (or, moreover, a continuation of an earlier chapter)…will it be enough? Will I feel fulfilled professionally? And what will this do to my creative pursuits? Will I have time to blog? Podcast? And what about Evan? Will he be ok not being with his mama every day? It always goes back to Evan.
This is why I almost busted my ass. Because I’ve been thinking about my missteps in life. The things I should have thought about before, like a pension and retirement and buying a house, and my idea of motherhood. I had a different vision then. An idealistic and maybe even unrealistic vision. Unless you are a millionaire that can hire help and nannies and purchase multiple homes, you can’t work all hours of the day and night, travel for radio and TV work, and raise your kids all while being bi-coastal.
Bottom line, I have realized that to be a mother comes with sacrifice. I no longer put myself first, eat first, sleep first – and I definitely don’t sleep in. I no longer run on my schedule and I can no longer be spontaneous. Case in point, as I type these words to try to get my thoughts and feelings off my mind and heart, my son, Evan, is crying in his bedroom as he is waking up from a nap.
I have to stop this train of thought. This creative flow. I have to be a mom, Evan’s mom, and tend to my baby boy. Sacrifice my needs. Sacrifice my creativity. All for my baby boy. I skip a step. I fall. I stumble and get right back up.
All for my baby boy.