A Little More Like Her

Sometimes I get myself into these moods where nothing I do quite measures up.

For example, on Monday, I decided I would clean our whole apartment. And I mean deep clean. I figured it was a good day to do it because I'd gotten a full night's rest (hasn't happened in months) and Kevin was in a good mood, content to play by herself and take decent naps (a rare feat). So I cleaned, and I cleaned, and I cleaned. I mopped the floors, scrubbed the bathrooms, dusted and polished all of the wood in our apartment. I even vacuumed! I even cleaned the vacuum itself!

And by Tuesday, you couldn't tell that I'd done a darn thing.

The kitchen floor that I had so carefully mopped was covered in remnants of Kevin's dinner and breakfast. The kitchen counters that I had so dutifully wiped off were covered in dirty dishes from the dinner I had so carefully and lovingly prepared for my family. The bathroom counters had water spots and the mirrors looked streaky. Kevin's toys covered not only the floor in her room but the living room floor as well.

So by Wednesday, I just gave up.

And all the laundry that I did on Monday is still sitting, unfolded, in a basket. And the clean dishes are still in the dish drainer, waiting to be put away. And the vacuum is still sitting there, taunting me, telling me I should get it out and use it again like all the good, sanitary moms do on a daily basis.

And I think, I should be more like them.

I should be more like my missionary trainer, who keeps an immaculately clean house just because she loves to clean. I should learn to love it too.

I should be like my sister-in-law, who gets up at 5:20 am everyday to go work out to keep her body healthy and keep my brother company at the gym. I should learn to love exercise and not loathe it and avoid it at all costs like I do.

I should be more like my neighbor, who spends time each day teaching her little boys colors and shapes and is undoubtedly getting them ready for their future education. I read to my daughter each day, yes, but most of the time our Story Time ends up like it did yesterday: me enthralled in Bartholomew and the Oobleck, merely reading it out loud to myself while my eleven-month-old uses my body as a jungle gym.

I should be crafty. I should be better at budgeting. I should be focusing on learning a new skill. I should cook a completely nutritious meal every day and pack my husband's lunches besides.

I should be more than I am.

I suppose I should amend my earlier statement to this: sometimes I get in these moods where nothing I do measures up to my own expectations.

If life were the way I perfectly picture it, I would be that wife whose house is constantly clean and organized, who is always dressed and put together and wouldn't dream of wearing yoga pants all day, who looks and feels rested all the time because her child is perfectly sleep-trained to go to bed on her own at seven pm and doesn't wake up until nine, who finds time every day to not just read a verse out of her scriptures (if she is lucky) but to sincerely study them, who would take the time to call that friend or family member who has been on her mind instead of waiting for them to call her. I would have the energy to keep up with all the things I want to get done as a wife and a mother and find time to do some freelance work and thus keep my brain fresh while also helping with the family finances on the side. I would be educated in current events and not just up to date on the latest episodes of my two current favorite TV shows (still can't believe they killed Matthew and that Neal is Henry's dad!). I would have taught my daughter baby sign-language two months ago and she would be less frustrated now because she could better communicate her needs to me now. I would already have her first birthday party planned and subsequent projects done, not just a list on a scrap of notebook paper I took out of one of my husband's school notebooks.

I would be everything I think I should be.

I read an article last week about Mommy Guilt--how stay-at-home moms and working moms alike beat themselves and then each other up for not being everything we think we should be. I don't know about you, but I get Mommy Guilt on a daily basis. And that turns into Wife Guilt. Which then turns into plain old Marinda Guilt because that is how I have been since the day I was born.

I must be perfect.

I can't possibly be perfect.

So I must settle for being me.

And for those who matter most, being me is enough.

For my husband, who really only wants to know he is loved and appreciated and to be given time with me at the end of each day.

For my daughter, who looks to me for comfort, love, guidance, a playmate, food, shelter, and joy.

For my Heavenly Father, who only asks that I, as His daughter, be His daughter.

Last week, after Kevin's bout with the virus from h.e.doublehockeysticks, my mom gave me this gem of wisdom: "Sick children are draining physically and emotionally. It gives a small glimpse of what our Heavenly Parents and the Savior feels for us."

After I read that, I thought about how all day, every day, Kevin seeks me out. If I am in another room, she crawls to find me. If she is stuck in her crib, she cries out for me. When we are playing together, she smiles and laughs to let me know she appreciates me. I am her first thought when she wakes up and her last thought as she falls asleep.

So it seems that the only person I really should be trying to emulate is my toddler, who is teaching me daily what it means to be a Child of God. What if I sought him out in every minute of every day and tried to keep Him in my sight at all times? What if, the instant I woke up each day, I started crying out to Him? What if, when I find myself feeling joy, I said a prayer of gratitude to thank Him for blessing me with those moments?

What if I was a little more like her?