When you don’t believe you’re worthy of more, or able to actually get it, you go from an intrepid adventurer in your life to a…settler. And once we start settling for crumbs, we soon decide that we’re lucky to have them, and become fearful of losing even them.
I am taking a break from my blogging hiatus because I’ve got a lot on my mind about over commitment and taking on too much. Since dropping off the blogging grid, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on serious issues such as purpose, parenting, how to live as a good example of my faith, …
Because I have 3.5-year-old twin boys and a 5-going-on-14-year-old-girl, who have been arguing about EVERYTHING, it seemed like as good a time as any to start an ambitious holiday tradition of making our own gingerbread house from scratch and decorating it. For the last several years, I’ve bought a pre-made house from the grocery store and decorated it with Bisky but this year no one is putting #NoBen in the corner and #StopThatAiden will not be denied an opportunity to do what his beloved lord and master is doing. I’ll be honest, the initial driver behind the whole do it completely ourselves thing was cost. Three premade ginger homes would be upwards of $30, which just seems dumb, so I combed the halls of Pinterest and found what I was looking for; a step by step tutorial on how to bake and assemble a gingerbread house.
Having expectations about what should be results in either two things. You get what you expected, and are satisfied (but not overly happy because it’s just what you expected) or you do NOT get what you expected so you are frustrated and resentful. Because of this, I work really hard at not having expectations, and life is a lot more fun.
And you know how not to be an entitled jerk?
My mission as a writer is to encourage and inspire others, but as a mom to three small children, a wife, and an entrepreneur for three business, sometimes things get overwhelming. I don’t know about you, but for me it’s like everything is going amazingly well, and I’m firing on all cylinders, and then BAM! the wheels start falling off. I’m usually an upbeat, laugh-in-the-face-of-pretty-much-everything kind of gal, which sometimes makes it difficult for me to admit when I’m not doing so well, or ask for help. Because I deal with pain by laughing at it, it’s hard for people to know when I’m actually not doing okay.
There’s no such thing as Mommy Guilt. To suggest there is is doing women everywhere a disservice, because the guilt and shame we women take on as a mantle from pretty much birth is in no way restricted to mothers. We all receive it as a legacy whether we want it or not, and we owe it to ourselves, sisters, friends, mothers, and especially our daughters, to take it off, look at it, and throw it in the trash where it belongs, and when someone tries to make us take it back, we see it for what it is, and say “No thank you, I’ve had enough for now. If that’s okay with you. Sorry.” (because girls are supposed to be polite, right?).
Hi, my name is Carrie and I’m a survivor of Rampant Perfectionist Syndrome (RPS). This is a disease millions of women face, and has been on the increase ever since we were ‘liberated’ to enjoy full-time careers and full-time motherhood (at the same time), in an era where ultra-lean, muscular physiques became a requirement and where social media exploded to help us understand just how important an immaculate home, creative décor, crafty DIY everything, glamorous vacations, perfect relationships, funny friends, and impeccably behaved children really were.