I want to be just like you, only I don’t

Aren’t you supposed to know who you are by the time you hit your 40’s? Isn’t peer pressure supposed to be a thing of the past by now? Shouldn’t confidence, self-assurance and a who-gives-a-fuck-what-anyone-thinks attitude be the best part of middle-age? If so, I’m doing something wrong. And I only have a few short months to turn this bus around.

I became a mom almost two years ago (holy shit!) and when I did, I suddenly had no idea who I was. MOM; what does that even mean to someone who didn’t intend to ever be one? For a solid year I was clueless, fumbling through each day just trying to keep my head above water. And then I made a mistake. I was so desperate to feel in control and composed, I let the Internet tell me who I wanted to be. For the last year I have sat back and admired a group of moms on the Internet making their way through motherhood with fierce tenacity. Running their own businesses, writing blogs people actually read, oozing creative genius, and all the while loving every minute of it. Or so it seems. It all looked so appealing. They were so put together. So talented. So articulate. They were living lives that I coveted. I wanted to be just like them, in the most complimentary way. I decided I needed to make similar goals and work my ass off to achieve them.

So I set my goals.

And then I sat my ass down on the couch with a bowl of ice cream.

Turns out I wasn’t as willing to work as hard as I’d expected. I had good intentions. I woke up every morning saying things like “today I’m going to get my shit together and be purposeful“. And at the end of every day I’d think “what happened?”

What happened was I was chasing the wrong dream. I had taken the Instagram definition of a successful mom and made it my own. Break-through moment; one definition does not fit all. I am just not as much of a go-getter as some of these moms. I don’t have a singular passion for one art. I certainly do not dream of being my own boss one day. I still think the moms I follow are seriously amazing and I bow down to their spirit and determination. I really have no idea how they do it all. But I’ve realized that even if I began living a similar life, I would be no more satisfied than I am now, here with my bowl of ice cream. Because to me, being a successful mom looks very different. Not better. Just simpler. Perhaps I don’t need to do as much as I’ve come to expect of myself.

I want my house to be a gathering point for friends and family; our kitchen to be it’s nucleus. I want my home to be clean, but not spotless, tasteful but not decorated. I want every person that enters my door to feel at home and at ease. Put your feet up. Pour yourself a coffee. There’s banana bread on the counter, help yourself. I want people to feel like they can just drop by. I want to cook for everyone. I want to make fresh bread, my own cheese and have a pantry full of mason jars filled with ingredients I’ll need to cook everything from scratch. I want a plentiful garden filled with the colours of nature that always taste better than the colours of Superstore. I want flowers outside my window and a canopy of trees to shade my family like a hug. I want lush grass to run my bare feet through. I want a goat for cheese. And chickens for eggs. I want to work hard maintaining my land but feel overwhelmingly rewarded at the end of each day. I want my kids to love nature and explore it with foolhardy wildness. I want to feel self-sufficient. I want to live frugally. I want to reduce, reuse and recycle. I want to be happy with what I have and not competitive or envious of others.