The Best of Intentions

 I was so excited when I was invited by my colleague to do this month of writing. I was amped and ready and full of ideas. I guess now might be the time to mention that I haven't written anything--on paper anyway--since Thursday. I had the best of intentions. Don't I always?

So here I am, 5 days late, writing something. The phrase "the best of intentions" kept bouncing around my head this morning. I have decided that it might be the theme to my adult life. My house is halfway clean. I made dinner 3 out of 5 planned nights. My daughter usually brushes her teeth at night. All these things begin and end with the best of intentions.

I think where I feel this most intensely right now is in my role as mother. My children are so many things to me--the first of which are miracles. My son entered my orbit after years of trying to conceive and a failed adoption. When his birth mother handed him to me, my world changed. My daughter, born almost 10 years later, was the result of science and hope and some magic baby dust. After being told unequivocally that I would never give birth--she too starts at the world miracle. Mind you, that is not a word I throw around loosely. If I am anything, I am an cynic. I often tell people I border on nihilism--or at the very least, pessimism. But, if you knew the details of these two humans and how they came to be my children, you'd be hard pressed not to use the word "miracle" or something close to it when describing their journey into my arms.

Motherhood is hard right now. Lately, it feels impossible. My children's age difference often makes me feel like I am living in two wholly different parenting universes. The space between their development is like vast canyon, and I am expected to scale it back and forth 1000 times a day. Full disclosure: it is exhausting, and I don't feel like I am doing any of it well, despite my best intentions.  My son is almost 13 now. He is so very much a preteen. The eyerolls and "whatevers" feel endless lately. He seems to be swimming in the angst of his tween existence. Parenting him feels impossible sometimes. He has always been a challenging child, but with a toddler and a global pandemic, I feel, lately, like I am phoning it in. I am so ashamed to admit that. See, he and I have been through the stuff together. Somehow we've always come through...always me and him against the world. I don't feel that as much anymore, and it makes my heart ache. I long for the deep connection we used to have. I can see the years with him winding down. I look to a future that isn't so far off and I wonder...will he call me? Will he text? Will he move far away? I want so much for him to grow up and run into life, arms open. I do. But my heart breaks a little every time I imagine him grown. I know things are supposed to change. I know that. It's just...I already feel him slipping away, and I'm not ready. I want more movie nights and cuddles and living room dance parties. I say this, yet, at the end of the day, I am so exhausted from work and chasing a toddler and dinner and all things adult that, all too often, I just let him go up to his room and be the angsty preteen. Why can't I juggle this a little better? I mean, I have the best of intentions.

Sometimes it feels like motherhood and adulthood (all the hoods, really) are just lessons in guilt. I tell myself every day that I will do better tomorrow. I will be more present. I will be less tired. I will be more engaged. Every day feels like a day I didn't do all the things I could have and should have. Between Pinterest and Instagram and TikTok, my "you suck meter" is redlining. And I'm over it. So, today I resign myself to do one thing a little differently instead of trying to do all the things better. If I make my focus more intentional, maybe I can get the best out of my intentions.