Last night, I was so physically drained, I came home and immediately laid down on my couch. Fortunately (or unfortunately) I was not mentally drained, as one might expect, so I got to lie there and think about all the things I would like to be doing. All of the motivation, but none of the get-up-and go.
I thought about the dishwasher half-full of clean dishes that I had been taking out one at a time for the last three days. I thought of the sink full of dirty dishes waiting to take their place. I thought of floors that needed to be mopped and laundry that needed to be folded.
But mostly I thought about my daughter, who was begging me to come sit by her at the dinner table, to play with her after dinner, to help her get ready for bed.
"Mommy doesn't feel well, Sweetheart," I said, trying to help a two-year-old understand how her real-life-superhero could be down for the count.
Being the precious girl that she is, my daughter recovered quickly from her confusion and disappointment and brought me a novelty ice pack in the shape of a Band-Aid. "Mommy better?"
"Thank you, Sweetheart. That does help Mommy feel better."
Then she climbed onto my lap and we watched cartoons on my phone, while I tried to push down my guilt about allowing her too much screen time; while I tried to be present and allow myself to feel whole.
~
This morning, I woke up with all of the exhaustion and none of the motivation of the previous night.
I drug myself out of bed with six minutes to get ready before catching the last train to DC. Not the train that would get me there on time, mind you. But the last train that would get me there at all.
In those few moments, I asked myself whether I was up to this, whether six minutes was enough time to pull on clothes and get myself out the door, whether I should call out again, or ask to work from home. “I’m having a rough morning” was already a text I had sent once this week.
And so I did it, if just barely.
Today I walked into work 30 minutes late, my hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing remnants of day-old makeup; I pulled a travel deodorant out of my drawer and brushed my teeth in the office bathroom. By all outward appearances, I am not looking particularly professional today.
But you know who will never know that? The person whose Service Desk ticket I work. The person project I finish, which allows them, perhaps for the first time, to do their daily work without headache. The person who reads this blog post and thinks “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
Sometimes being a mom looks like laying on the couch while your child takes care of you and no one takes care of the house.
Sometimes being a professional looks like showing up and doing your job, even when (especially when) you look and feel like hell.
In the words of my favorite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke:
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
In my own words: Just be present and allow yourself to feel whole.
--Shelly Binkley
Can I offer a virtual hug?
We do what we can do, to the best of a given day's capabilites. Today's lunch for me was the fruit leftover in my Starbucks refresher drink. Tomorrow, my best might be a sandwich.
You may absolutely give me a virtual hug. And I will send one to you!
My intent in writing this was to try something slice-of-life-- to say "this is my normal, and the normal for a lot of neurodivergent folks, and that's ok." And I wanted to challenge what "professional" means. (I didn't initially set down to write that bit about my daughter, but it felt right to include it).
So don't worry about me too much! This is hardly me at my worst