This is a guest post by Caitlin Morgan who serves as the Small Groups Coordinator for Student Ministry at East 91st Street Christian Church in Indianapolis. You can follow her on Twitter and Facebook and also check out her personal blog here.
I craved a grapefruit and a salad for dinner tonight. Normally this wouldn’t be such a miracle for me. Not according to any of my friends who lovingly tell me that my diet often looks as though it consists of leaves and twigs that I plucked from my own back yard. You’re lucky if they have salt and pepper on them. But for the past few months of my pregnant life, all I have wanted is cheese. Make that cheese on some white flour pizza dough. And some hot wings. And breadsticks with cheese. And crackers or corn chips…with cheese. Or skyline…mmm skyline.
Yeah, this has been my life for two months.
I spend most of my days shopping at Good Earth or Whole Foods. I registered for cloth diapers and organic wipes. I researched bottles to find the perfect BPA free glass containers until my eyes hurt. I plan on attempting (dear God am I scared…) a natural birth. I want to baby-wear, and the only reason I go to Kroger is to buy toilet paper. Yet, with all that being said…
I just want to eat some french fries without people chuckling at me or gloating at my weakness. I want to eat mostly vegan but I just want it to be ok to cheat sometimes and get ice cream or put some freaking cheese on it without anyone laughing to themselves or thinking “I knew she would fail…”. Sometimes I want to be a junk food Gollum and scoop up every unhealthy food imaginable and pet it and stroke it and sing to it and carry it around in a little pouch on my neck, calling it my precious and terrorizing anyone who tries to take it from me. That and throw in some better hair and I am sold (seriously, Gollum is looking like he tried to pull some Donald Trump swag comb-over with a total of three strands of hair. What is that?). I mean, this year, my garden died and I watched it happen. Watched it. And you know what I did? I sighed in relief. Then I went and painted my nails. I also probably didn’t exercise that week.
So I just need to confess that I need a high-five. I need a “three cheers for the vegan who is faking it. The lactose intolerant who makes exceptions for ice cream. The cluttered, forgetful, insanely scatter-brained pregnant lady (although pregnancy has NOTHING to do with those) who bought two, count ‘em TWO, organizing box sets for her little girls dresser drawers!” I need permission to not have to be type-A, since I am not type-A. I need permission to wear my socks inside out for two days in a row. I need a fist bump for having worked out at ALL in a month’s time, let alone on a regular basis. I need a pat on the back for having actually done ANY research on ANYTHING related to ANYTHING in the world, because, honestly, I HATE doing that stuff!
I need it to just be ok. I need to hear the occasional, “Hey, your still keen”, or “I think you’re smart, even if you can’t remember your own husband’s birthday or make it to an appointment on time…ever.”
I know what I wish I could do. Don’t you? We all have the ideal way our exercising, eating and child-raising lives should go. But usually, it just doesn’t work out that way. I get busy, frazzled, or let’s be honest, my personality takes over and completing any organizational task or showing up on time becomes an undertaking so momentous that James Cameron should let the Titanic dream die and come make a movie about my life and (almost) achievements.
And now I am pregnant. I’m going to be a mom, and I can’t imagine achieving my unrealistically high (for me) nutritional/organizational/educational/spiritual/relational/everything-under-the-freaking-sun goals is going to get any easier. Or simpler. I can’t imagine my success rate is going to go up. But I can imagine I will probably buy my kid McDonald’s more than once in her life. Or let her watch two movies in one day when I am extra tired.
So I am requesting that I get an Amen. I am requesting the highest of fives from the sista’s out there who feel me. Who get overwhelmed in the details, bogged down in the “if I could just…then I would…”. The ones who say too much, leave the house without their wallet, and forget to call people back. The ones who dream of being the type-A organic hipster mom that scoff’s at the mere mortals whipping out the goldfish crackers in the grocery store to keep their kid from crying. I need you to tell me I am doing ok, that no one who matters is judging me and then bring me a plate of fries with cheese sauce.
Question: Can you relate? Leave a comment below and join the conversation!