I never really believed that pregnancy or mommy brains were real phenomena. And when I heard people bitching about how busy their post-baby lives were, I often wondered if they were victims of the busy trap.
Mea. Freaking. Culpa.
The last 6 months for me have been a cascading experience of a million little mistakes. None so big as to threaten my job, my relationships or otherwise, but in the aggregate, these little mistakes sure add up to me feeling like a failure some days.
I’m not. I know this. I have a thriving, rosy-cheeked baby. I’m kicking butt at work and truly, my marriage is stronger than ever. At 33, I’m in my prime.
I am the one beating myself up, and it seems like everyone else thinks I walk on water.
They don’t know, though, that I forgot to eat breakfast three out of five days last week. Just forgot to do it.
They don’t know, though, that I accidentally kept an important email in my drafts overnight instead of sending it.
They don’t know, though, that I spilled an entire bottle of freshly-pumped milk all over my pants then hid it by putting a blanket on my lap.
They don’t know, though, that I tweeted the wrong link to something and really screwed over someone that trusted me.
They don’t know…that a lot of days, I’m just trying to breathe deeply and make it through without any massive, uncorrectable errors.
Little things. Nothing major. But I’m Type A enough to feel like I’m letting people down, and not living up to my own potential.
I’m in a great place, truly. I somehow escaped the baby blues that so many new moms have, and most days, I feel like I have this whole working mom thing down pretty well. I love what I do and I know that these mistakes are forgivable. I just need to forgive myself for them, and that’s hard.