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I’ve obviously fallen off the blogging bandwagon. This dearth of posting has mostly been a fruitful experience. I was flipping through a magazine the other day that revealed survey results showing just how much time the women surveyed spent dabbling in social media each day. The results seemed shocking to me because I could not remember the last time I’d popped in on Facebook. I recently did post a few shots of my little man because who could resist sharing this bookish look with friends?
(Since a few people asked, those are just doll glasses my dad slipped on him. He loved wearing them though.)
I also caught up with a few friends and their growing and changing babies. I spent about 30 minutes perusing photos and status updates before logging off. It showed me the good that can be found in social media: how we can quickly spread prayer requests or disseminate photos of our children to loved ones near and far.
Yet, I also know that not so long ago I was spending too much time online – whether I was blogging, on Twitter, or engaged in some other social media outlet. When I talk about my need to cut back, I do not intend to make others feel guilty. We all have different sleep needs, temperaments, working arrangements, husbands, and children. All of this comes in to play when we’re discerning how much is too much. I have my own personal litmus test when it comes to gauging whether or not I should be logging in more or less time online. When I find myself getting twitchy or anxious or when I realized that I was, however innocuously, gently or absentmindedly, shooing a child away while I wrote something to encourage other moms to savor motherhood and their little ones (irony!), I knew it was time to take a step back. I’d also been experiencing some severe symptoms of burnout. I still am in many ways and sometimes wonder how I had ever time to write as much as I used to since I’m an effective time manager and still have trouble keeping up with laundry, controlling clutter, and homeschooling. I’m still trying to figure out what has to give or what I need to do to get through each day (more prayer, more peace, less stress!). Finally, as I continue to discern our homeschooling future, I knew I never would want to stop homeschooling so I could write or blog more. First things first.
But last night I realized I’d overlooked a benefit that blogging in particular offered me. I was enjoying my monthly book club soiree where there’s more wine-swilling and girl-talking than erudite book talk. This month’s selection, The Light Between Oceans, was beautifully-written and a definite tear-jerker. Read it, weep, and drown your sorrows and contemplations in that glass of vino.
I was yammering on about some of my latest insecurities, which, sadly, includes the size of my bum. (Curse my vain wretchedness now, o faithful remnant!) I’ve been back to running for months now and have been frequently logging in 20-plus miles a week while also keeping up with my strength training routine; yet, the scale has not budged. My weight has not fluctuated at all; it goes neither up or down. I have literally weighed the same amount with a .2 pounds attached to it for over a month now. I only weigh myself once a week, and I probably should ditch the scale altogether as I did in my eating disorder recovery days. However, I’ve been reluctant because I really am trying to focus on health. But that’s the thing. I am healthy. So what if my body is holding onto those last seven pounds? I counsel people over and over to stop thinking that losing those last [insert your own magical number] of pounds will somehow make you happier, better, or more in control. It’s a blasted mirage! I know this, so why am I having trouble getting over it? Why are these relics from my eating disordered past haunting me?
I feel great running again. My mood has definitely experienced a boost, although I still have my anxious, insecure moments that make me feel like a teenager again. Lately it’s been a battle against my bum and me. I had a fleeting moment of derrière security when one of husband’s female colleague complimented me. I shared this with my wonderful girlfriends, who don’t judge me, and immediately regretted sharing it and then joked, “Don’t tell my secret. I’ll never make peace with my body or anything.”
I don’t want to be one of those obnoxious girls that is blessed beyond measure who always has something to lament about or has to tell “glowing” stories to make her look better (or thinner or whatever). Nor do I want to be mired in hypocrisy. I feel called to help women reclaim the beauty of creation and to help moms ditch the attempts to be the perfect mom and just enjoy their children and motherhood. I need to try to live that way most of the time, then.
Although my “making peace” reference was meant to be funny and we laughed, later that night I considered that the image I portray online, while mostly authentic (no one is going to air all their dirty laundry, not even self-deprecating me), also holds me accountable. When I write about what I’m trying to do, it gives me the incentive to keep trying to do just that. My blog covers myriad topics but at its heart it’s about finding God in the trenches of motherhood as well as working through your spiritual doubts, being a “good enough” mom, seeking a perfect union with Him rather than trying to be perfect in everything you do, keeping a sense of humor, and, yes, making peace with my body and all of those parts of me I wish I could change or have not respected or accepted as I should.
We all need personal accountability. My blog “personality” offers me this. In a similar way, I recently felt sheepish after honking at someone who cut me off since he very well could have seen my “Choose Life” license plate before he whipped in front of me since he had been closely tailgating me. I should have turned the other cheek. That “Choose Life” license plate isn’t just about my pro-life views. It’s about the woman I am called to be.
The same is true about this blog. I’ve always wanted to be honest here – to admit I have tough, downright disastrous days. Yet, I’ve also always tried to use my words (and the lessons learned from my own stumbles and struggles) to encourage and edify. I’ve been dumping on friends a lot more lately. I’m so grateful to have finally found some real, treasured, genuine good friends here. But I need not overwhelm them with my impassioned speeches or melancholic leanings. Lately, I tell the same stories over and over. I expose myself and make myself vulnerable by sharing my own insecurities. This is sometimes a good thing, but they don’t need to be the depository for every whim and emotion I experience.
Writing is strong catharsis for me. It’s cheaper than therapy. It keeps things in perspective. And it holds me accountable, especially when it’s shared in the public forum rather than in the innermost pages of my journal. It reminds me I have to live up to this Catholic woman image who believes in the dignity of herself and everyone she meets. It means I ought not to incessantly complain or vent about my real or perceived imperfections. Likewise, it demands I don’t share unnecessary anecdotes or stories about myself or my children just to make it seem like I’m doing a “good enough” job. The words I weave together, the conversations that flow from my mouth cannot just be about me. First, I need to reciprocate, especially with those in-the-flesh conversations. Talk less, listen more. Don’t be afraid of silence. Don’t fill the air in an attempt to come off as the girl who knows it all. Second, I must strive to share about the life I’m called to live as well as live it. And if writing in this space about the person I want to be when I grow up helps keep me on track, then it’s worth carving out a bit more time for it.