Wide eyed at 3:30 this morning, I can’t stop thinking. About me. About you. About our daughters. The sound of white noise from across the hallway echoes throughout the house. If I listen close enough, it sounds like its saying something. I take a sip of water and turn to the other side. “I’ll write it down in the morning”, I tell myself. That’s how it used to be, you know. Before children and businesses and hormones. When coffee was taken in as a luxury rather than a necessity. I could write an entire novel in my sleep and wake up to pen every word. Those days are gone. Replaced with a foggy memory and an absent mind and many, oh so many forgotten words.
There is this theme I’m afraid has haunted our mothering years. On every corner of the internet is one of us who feels less than. One who feels defeated. Who feels…
Judged.
There it is, that word.
Stop judging me. I feel so judged. I’m judged for everything. I judge, you judge, we all judge for judging judge. The slogan of our war. Good gracious.
Just yesterday my eye caught four (four!!) different blogs, posts, threads, all of which were written by women who feel less than because of something another woman is doing differently. All of which told those gals who birth naturally to just quit talking about it. All of which condemned the mom who manages to workout daily and posts pictures of it. The mom who breastfeeds should not be proud. The mom who is crafty should just keep that creativity to herself. Hey vegetarian, please tone it down a bit and for the love of carbs can somebody shut up the Paleo’s?
Because really, y’all are making me feel like crap.
Can we ask ourselves a hard question? Can we say it out loud and let it rest on our broken ground for just a minute?
Who is responsible for my heart?
Because, people are beautiful. Good God, women are beautiful. Wired with a snowflake array of passions, convictions, goals and accomplishments. Every single one clothed in dignity and power. Knit within each of us is this power of choice.
I may choose to encourage, support, and cheer on my fellow (wo)man, or I may choose to make it about me.
Could it be that we are the ones responsible for our feelings of judgement and insecurity? I mean, could it be that we have the power to break free of that bondage without matter to what other people are doing, saying, typing?
Who controls me? (Hopefully you’re catching on to the answer, here.)
