How It Started vs How It's Going

In which I introduce myself and tell you what I want to be when I grow up.

When I was a little girl I had a lot of ideas about who I would be when I grew up. They ranged from the common answers (actress, singer) to the retrospectively-outlandish (private eye detective). I held these convictions deeply anywhere from one week to a few years.

There was just one long-standing, overarching conviction I had about what I wanted to be when I grew up: a writer.

Oh, and also, definitely not a mother.

When I conjured up images of what being a writer would be like, it was usually a picturesque sun-filled scene of a young woman in nice but comfy clothes, sitting at a coffeeshop window. Latte and croissant on her left and laptop in front of her, she tapped away peacefully writing novel after novel with the comforting hubbub of cafe noises behind her.

Well, here I am, sitting next to a sunny window with a laptop in front of me. It's everything I imagined—except there's no coffeeshop, no croissant, my seat is on a stationary bike and I am sweating bullets.

My caffeine is in my rambler water bottle and I'm chugging it because I barely got five hours sleep last night and still had to get up at 6 AM to make breakfast. Why?

I'm a mother.

***

By all accounts that matter, I was sold a lie. I grew up in the generation that had free-loving hippies for parents, if you were lucky. My parents divorced. I was taught that if I wanted security in life, I needed a career. I needed degrees and accolades that would guarantee I could always get work. Then, when everything fell apart, I'd be fine.

As I got older, the message changed. Now, having a job wasn't only a safety net—it was your identity. More and more boss-babe blogs touted a jet-setting lifestyle, fine clothes and business trips to Greece. Executive assistants and marketing managers posted exotic photos on this new popular site called Instagram of fancy hotels and wine at business dinners. Beautiful young women flitted around doing—what, exactly? It didn't matter. I dreamed about having a life like that, filled with freedom, purpose, and perks.

***

My son is sitting determinedly in the middle of the living room, utterly focused on trying to get one of his toy blocks out of a jar. He puts his hand in and grabs the block, but can't pull it back out the narrow mouth of the jar with his fist wrapped around it. He yanks and twists and lets go of the block, watching it fall to the bottom of the jar, over and over again.

He's doing the wrong thing for the right purpose. His little grunts start to become bigger frustrated whines and I say, "You can do it! Keep going!" but I don't help him. This is too valuable a lesson to learn, if he can figure it out for himself.

Eventually he picks up the jar and tilts it, seeing the block slide closer towards the mouth of the jar. He turns the jar upside down and gives it a thorough shake, and the block falls out.

"Mama!" he exclaims, looking at me, with surprise and pure joy on his face.

***

You could say I did it all wrong, but I believe it was right by God's timing. At the ripe age of twenty-three I was living the dream—conducting business as an executive assistant in exotic locations on the other side of the world. I'd really done it. I had nice clothes and jewelry, lived in a huge house that was cleaned once a week by not me, and I could have my fill at any time of wine and fancy dinners. And I was utterly empty inside.

Was this being alive? Where was the fulfillment I was promised in all my fancy entrees and nights out? I still came home to a dead and empty house that looked like something out of the cold, thin pages of a magazine. All my purpose in life amounted to a paycheck. My Instagram, of course, looked amazing. But I drank myself to sleep most nights.

***

When I met my now-husband, neither of us wanted children. We were too busy working, flying with just carry-on luggage from one client to another. I wish I had a roadmap for how we got here from there. I wish I had a step-by-step listicle to share with you entitled, "Top Five Things a Woman Should Do to be Utterly Fulfilled in Life," but I don't. All I can say is that God opened my heart and started showing up in small ways throughout my life. And for that I will be eternally grateful.

Not too many nights ago at 2 AM my son is refusing to go back to sleep for the umpteenth time. He thrashes on his bed, babbling, practices his somersaults, and literally tries to climb the walls. I'm exhausted, thirsty, and I have to pee. I sit there resolutely coaxing him to lay down and shut up.

When, finally, his indecipherable monologue becomes slow, even breathing, I realize I'm smiling like a goofball. I realize that this is living, and that there is no one else I'd rather be.