I am an American-born woman, a wife, and a mother of two.
I prefer to go by my full name. The family into which I was born and the family into which I chose to marry are equally important to me.
I have a master's degree. I was able to attend graduate school because my husband supported me: my dreams and my finances.
I teach full-time. I love my job. I like it when people ask me whether I like my job. I like it less when people ask me who cares for my children while I am working. When my husband worked three jobs, people never seemed to ask him the same question.
I was nursing my baby boy until two days ago. I love tucking my children into bed.
I believe my husband is the spiritual leader of our home. I do not, however, believe that he is always right.
I receive a paycheck in my name that is more than my husband earns per month. However, I believe we are both earning the same amount. Whatever is mine is his. It is unimportant whose name is on the paycheck because we are both working hard toward a goal united: to support our family.
I am uninterested in identifying myself as a feminist.
I more interested in claiming my personhood as woman who struggles mightily to be more like Jesus Christ.
There are women like I am everywhere.
Someday there may be more of us; I am raising one of them.
Once upon a teenage religious retreat, I broke my leg after I hung from some rafters above a staircase and landed with a thud, followed by a pop.
Since then, the leg has been susceptible to many injuries, and now I am once again sounding like a blue-haired betty, rattling off my medical history unsolicited.
I provide this preface, however, so that you can understand how I was trying to get my punks into the car the other day and I unwittingly stepped down off an awkward curb and lo! Again with the epic pop.
I proceeded to ask my children to do the most kind and merciful thing that could be rendered from one human to another at that moment, which was to stop talking. "Okay, mama! We won't talk. See? I'm not talking, Mama. Tatum, no talking, okay? Mama said no talking."
I then, with the help of God's angels seen and unseen, strapped 2 punks into carseats and heaved a double stroller into my trunk. I then drove to pick up Loverpants from frisbee and the pain emanating from my ankle was, straight-up, worse than labor. I can say that on good authority. The shooting pain that was causing me to sweat like a girl scout at overnight camp at Jurassic Park was INTENSE. Fortunately, there was an ER down the road from the frisbee field, which is where we all spent Sunday Funday as a family, all lovin' on each other in the ER waiting room. Awwwww!
Wanna see how gross my ankle looked?
So gross. Turns out it was merely a sprain, so I'm rocking the aircast and the crutches, and the pain meds that make me feel tired and loopdaloop.
The next day I got to board a fun bus and venture on a recruiting trip to speak with several students at a couple of Christian academies in the Asheville, NC area. I do so enjoy speaking with the young'ns who are not afraid to share their dreams of becoming an author clown dentist that also operates a law office on the side. And works at camp every summer. Their idealism is awfully much refreshing.
Also refreshing was sleeping in a hotel bed all to myself!! Even though I couldn't jump on the bed per tradition since, hello, hard out here for a gimp. I also enjoyed unlimited HGTV and not having to fight anyone for the remote. Decadence.
I think I am becoming increasingly more extroverted. Most people would likely peg me as a natural extrovert, but it is not my default setting. I'd much rather be like Frank Sinatra whom I read was someone who "liked to be alone but with people close by." But my kids have cracked me open to delight more in the company of people, to seek it out even (rather than muddling through all the mingling and merrymaking until I can paddle my way back to the island of solace).
That's a load of blather about the happenings here. Also want to add that I adore my husband who rocks the fort while I am away, and love my kids whose video I watched many times while on my little junket away from home.
I've been not looking for something for a while now.
And the upside of not looking for something is finding something different and maybe even better in its stead.
I have been not looking for balance for almost two years now. A sweet and wise friend told me after I had my son (when life really began for me as a juggling mother of two) to stop trying to seek the balance. To cease this vain search for something that would forever prove elusive and possibly non-existent.
She told me instead to try and find a rhythm that would jive with me. To recognize the erratic ebb and flow of life and to accept that some days are just going to be Too Honking Much for One Woman and then let us hope for several days of peacefulness henceforth.
That thought, that simple principle of abandoning this ommmmmming yogi who keeps all things centered in lotus position, in exchange for BRING ON THIS MESS because cleaning up spills is good exercise for my core? This is what is working for me.
When I seek the balance, I am looking to myself and hoping that I don't tip over.
When I seek to find a rhythm, I am looking God-ward, asking for increased strength to weather the choppy notes, and lifting up thanks for those rare gifts of grace notes.
***
The past two weeks, my winter depression has been trying to steamroll me. I feel the depressed feelings in my very cheekbones; my face is achey.
I have been quite good at preparing for my classes and staying on top of trends and reports in my field.
But that? That is all.
I know this rhythm, though. I know where the notes on this scale resume after this breve, after this rest.
***
I received a voicemail from Baby Girl's teacher last week. I retrieved this message after lunch was over. After, specifically, the lunch where I was supposed to show up as a lunch guest. The lunch guest appointment that I should have written down in my planner when it was assigned in September.
I spent about 5 seconds self-examining WHAT KIND OF PARENT DOES THIS? WHO AM I? I DON'T DESERVE TO EAT OR BUY NEW LOAFERS EVER AGAIN!!!
I know this rhythm, though. I know that Baby Girl will forgive me and that sweeter notes are on the next bar.
***
In other hair-raising news, Little Man is a photo stahh. Stay tuned for more from Inspired Magazine.
Hi. My name is Kendra Stanton Lee.
