I said so many times to Steven, "I promise I'm trying to get out of this rut."
And I was trying! Oh my heck, was I trying.
And then Friday night while I was lamenting the death of my favorite frame ever that was shattered into a million pieces (so actually like five) by Gage who had the audacity to laugh when it broke (imagine that. Darn three-year-old).... it started to dawn on me:
I was feeling miserable all week because I'd been comparing myself to others all week (and I also had the stomach flu, but that only accounted for the physical downer).
That blogger who goes camping with her husband like every weekend and wears flannel shirts and slouchy hats and looks so infatuated with her spouse. Why aren't you spending more time outside Brooke (well, it is winter in upstate NY, so...) Why aren't you more lovey-dovey, Brooke? Why don't you look cute enough to take a million self portraits and post them on the internet while camping?
Or the mom who made paint for her kids and let them paint murals on the shower walls then said it was easy clean up because she already wipes the shower down with bleach every couple days so no biggie. Every couple days? Try every third year. Why don't you clean your shower more, Brooke? Why aren't you making paint? What kind of mother are you?!
Or my city-dwelling twin who has like 80,000 blog followers and documents the most boring stuff ever and still has a huge reader base and is considered a reputable writer? Why haven't you become a real writer yet, Brooke? When are you going to follow that dream, Brooke? Probably never, you lazy under-achiever! And why should you anyway? You'll fail. And you'll take away from time you should be spending on other things.
Why don't you have more energy, Brooke? Why don't you teach Gage his letters and numbers more often, Brooke? Why aren't you prettier, Brooke? Why don't you make fruit roll-ups from scratch, Brooke? Why don't you have ombre'd hair, Brooke? Why are your legs so hairy, Brooke? Why don't you make more friends, Brooke? Why don't you save more money, Brooke? Huh? Why Why Why Why WHY?!
GET OUT OF MY HEAD, MEAN BROOKE! I DON'T LIKE YOU!
Holy freakin' shnikies! Now that you've had an in-depth and probably way too personal glimpse into my mental state, please don't judge me or shower me with pity. I might be making a huge leap here, but don't you do this too? At least, to a certain degree? I am so tired of berating myself. It is seriously the downward spiral of doom. Comparison is so sneaky that I don't even realize I'm doing it until I'm completely habited.
You know, I guess what it comes down to is that I had this thought so many times over that horrid week:
You are just not enough.
Ugh! What a sad thought! Because the truth is, I am enough. I am more than enough. So maybe I don't make 3D pb&j sandwich sculpture for my son's lunch. Maybe I wore the same outfit three days in a row. Yeah, so what? I am adequate. My kids love me. My husband thinks I'm awesome. I try to do the right things every day. I try to make the people around me happy. And that is enough. It always has been.
Comparison is the thief of joy.
That dirty little thief.