A couple of weeks ago, Mister Mister told me about a tweet I’d once written that concerned him. It was somewhere around a year into our relationship, and it went something like, “Do you ever have the feeling your life isn’t going the way you want it to, but you have no idea how to get back there?” And of course that would concern him. And I couldn’t come up for a good reason why I would have written that, except that I hated my job with a gut-wrenching desperation that I’ve hardly felt about anything ever, and I was going through some major anxiety that needed medicating.
I’ve felt the need to apologize a lot for that 2-year-old tweet in the days since we talked about it. Just like I feel the need to apologize when I get too wrapped up in the to-do lists and the things I want to buy but can’t afford and the stuff I’m afraid might go wrong someday.
Saturday night, when Mister Mister came home from work and we talked about playing a board game, it struck me that I was feeling pretty good about life. I’d had a productive day that included spending around $400 at IKEA and Target, and putting together stuff to go around our house. I looked around and admired the colors on our walls and the framed pictures I’d so carefully hung, and liked that the place finally felt like home instead of a house we pay for that all our stuff is in. And yes, some of that gratitude came from my husband and dog romping on the bed in the dimmed bedroom. But too much of it came from satisfaction over the stuff.
I’m acutely aware that I spend too much time deriving satisfaction from new dining room chair seats and the way the reading room is finally starting to look pulled together. Why could I not conceive of our house as a home in those early months after moving in, even though the furniture may not have been as coordinated as I would have liked and our walls were bare and all one color I wasn’t fond of? Why did I waste my time striving for a different day, a day when my house would *look* the way I wanted it to, instead of feeling the way that it did? Why did I wait until October — a full 6 months after we moved in — to start planning a get-together for all our close friends to come share our home with us? Was it because I was somehow ashamed that things didn’t look as stylish as I hoped they would? Was it because our walls were beige and our couch too small?
One of the reasons I scheduled a party for late October was because so many people still hadn’t been to our new house, and it seemed like a friendly thing to do. But I said to Mister Mister, “After February, I’m sure I won’t deem the house guestworthy for a long time, with baby stuff everywhere and me with no energy to clean up.” As if there’s a certain shame involved with having baby toys strewn about and the kitchen counters a bit less than sparkling.
Today, I’m striving for the day when I can feel happy simply waking up alive and healthy, next to my alive and healthy husband, with our alive and healthy baby inside of me, and our alive and healthy animals sleeping or roaming about the quiet, morning-lit house. I’m striving for the day when I can feel good that we put something warm in our tummies around dinnertime, instead of the complexity of ingredients therein. I’m striving for the day when I can feel good that we have access to water to wash our clothing, instead of the cost, style, and quality of that clothing. I’m striving for the day when I have time for a long hug and several kisses with my husband, instead of the day when I’m hurrying about fixing everything to look just so for that someday person that might judge me for the disarray of my belongings.
So how do I get there?