Overscheduled Expectations

My phone alarm chimes loudly on the nightstand next to me, and I fumble in the darkness to turn it off. I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes and then glance at the time. I only have about 20 minutes before the kids wake up. They’ll plod down the steps like zombies, still half asleep but awake enough to remind me they need breakfast. Twenty minutes, I coach myself. Twenty minutes to get something done. I do my own zombie-esque walk to the kitchen, pour my mug of coffee, and curse the fact that I’ve been trying to cut back on caffeine. This cup of half caffeinated coffee isn’t going to cut it today.

Balancing my mug and notebook in one hand, I turn the doorknob to the basement with my other. Only a few drops of coffee spill as I open the door. I’ll wipe those up later, I promise myself. I’ll probably forget. I carefully tiptoe down the basement steps with my overly full mug, turning the corner to see our caramel colored rescue dog lounging on a queen-sized bed. She has her own dog-sized bed on the floor, but she knows her worth. She’s curled up on what used to be our guest bed–back when our house was less chaotic and more relaxing and I actually had the energy to host overnight guests. The bed is old, and I keep meaning for us to bring it out to the curb to toss. But we’ve just never gotten around to it, which seems to be the theme of my life these days. In the meantime, the dog has made it clear it’s hers now. I’m too tired to argue. 

I sit down at the desk next to that old guest bed and pull up my Google calendar on the computer. I glance at the clock. Ten minutes. Not much time, but maybe I can at least journal for a few minutes or answer an email. Oh wait. I hear someone. I take a deep breath, caught off guard by how frustrated I am that a child woke up just a few minutes earlier than normal. I need these few minutes by myself! The clock is ticking, and pretty soon, they’ll be pulling on my sweatshirt, asking me what’s for breakfast and what the weather’s like and what I’m making them for lunch and where their shoes are and when they can have a playdate with so-and-so and a host of other questions I definitely won’t be caffeinated enough to answer.

Anger wells up in my chest. I don’t know exactly why. The day hasn’t even started, but it’s as though I’m already succumbing to defeat. I lay my head down on the desk, and the tears start to flow. 

I am so flipping tired. 

My husband walks down the stairs, and I know what he’s going to ask. The noise has reached a crescendo upstairs, and I can’t get away with hiding in the basement any longer. “Are you able to come up?” He’s being nice about it, but I want to bite his head off. “Yes! I’m coming!” I say, too sternly, too intensely. Why can’t I just answer nicely? What is wrong with me? But it feels like this is who I am now. The kids and my husband and the dog all seem to need something at the same time, I didn’t sleep well, and why can’t everyone just leave me alone already?

It’s not even 8am. 

My shoulders drop in defeat as I turn back toward my computer screen. Time’s up. I click and drag a few calendar items around, moving what should have gotten done this morning to tomorrow morning, although I know deep down tomorrow morning won’t be much different. I’m frustrated and discouraged. I’ve fallen behind even before the winter sun has fully woken up.

I finally acquiesce to the questions and requests I hear from the kitchen, and I walk upstairs to make breakfast and pack lunches. The baby smiles in his chair, playing his version of peek-a-boo. He puts his hands over his ears instead of his eyes, smashing bits of scrambled egg in his hair in the process. ”Where’s Sammy?!” two of the kids call out in unison. Sam takes his hands off his ears as they shout a triumphant, “There he is!” 

I smile, savoring the sibling joy that quickly devolves into fighting. “Mom! He hit me again!” “She hit me first!” “No, I didn’t!” I say something about not fighting and trying to work it out and please don’t hit each other, and then I grab the last few slices of bread out of the bag and slap on more jelly than is probably good for my kids. Maybe that way, a certain child will actually eat the sandwich. My mind wanders. Edits are due soon! We have no bread left for lunch tomorrow. I forgot to email that person back. I guess I have to go to Costco. When am I going to carve out time to work on that talk I’m supposed to give? Ack! The baby is trying to crawl out of his high chair again! 

“SAM!” I hear the kids yell. I’m jolted out my thoughts. I run over to the high chair where the ten-month-old is wriggling his way free from the straps around his waist. I have to buckle him tighter next time. I leave myself another mental note, my brain functioning like a desk full of Post-Its. 

Constantly flipping between my responsibilities as a mom and all my other responsibilities wears me down. I’m mad at myself for not being able to get it all done. I’m frustrated everyone else won’t leave me alone long enough to check off a task. And even though my husband and I agreed to this division of labor and he’s the one who actually makes the money to pay for this house and the bread we keep running out of, sometimes I find myself resenting the fact that when he migrates to the basement to work, he’ll get to stay there in (relatively) uninterrupted quiet. 

My husband drives the Big Three to school, and the noise level of our home comes to a simmer. It’s only 8:45, and I’m ready to call it quits for the day. But I bring the baby back downstairs with me so he can crawl around me while I try to answer a few emails or, let’s be honest, move a few more calendar items around. This is not sustainable, I admit to myself. But I look at the calendar and I’m not sure what to change. I’ve made commitments, agreed to deadlines. I don’t know what needs to go, what can go. 

We don’t have our kids signed up for a million activities. We don’t have plans every single weekend. I regularly add time blocks to our Google calendar that say, “Don’t plan anything,” in an effort to intentionally schedule margin. So how do I keep ending up here? How do I end up overwhelmed and defeated before my coffee even gets cold? 

Maybe clearing commitments all off my proverbial plate isn’t even the first step. Maybe my first step, like an addict, is to admit my problem. My life is unmanageable, and even though I’ve been careful over the years to not overschedule activities and events, I have overscheduled my own expectations. 

There are tasks I’ve set aside for lack of time (painting our bedroom, taking down that old wallpaper in the half bathroom, organizing my closet, writing that email series, decluttering the playroom), but I haven’t set down the expectation with it. I’m physically letting certain things go, but mentally, I’m upset at myself for never having done them. 

I carry the weight of expecting myself to do what my calendar reminds me I can’t. 

I set the baby on one hip and grab my now half-filled and cold mug of coffee with my free hand and head back downstairs to my desk in the basement. I put him on the floor with a pile of toys, and he crawls around happily as I punch a few more keys on the keyboard. It’s almost time for his nap, which has become one of the few relatively predictable times of day. I glance at the calendar again, deciding which task I’ll work on while he sleeps and hoping desperately he stays asleep long enough to make progress. 

Sam starts to fuss next to me, and I step away from the computer and pick him up. “Getting tired, Bud?” I say. He buries his head in my chest, and I carry him upstairs. After the nursing and rocking routine, I lay him in his crib, he cries for a minute, and then falls fast asleep. I walk past the unpainted master bedroom, noticing the piles of clean laundry on my bed, and shake my head at myself. When will I get that done? Maybe I should scrap my writing work today and do chores instead. That bathroom needs a good cleaning, too. As I walk down the hall, out of the corner of my eye, I can see globs of toothpaste dotting the sink in the kids’ bathroom. Overwhelm rises in my chest.

I pause in the hallway, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. What can wait? How can I best use the time I have–and let go of everything that doesn’t fit? No matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t squeeze hours of work into a few minutes, and I’m tired of trying. I’m tired of expecting the impossible.

How do I set down the expectations? How do I let go of what I want to get done so I have enough room for what can get done? But maybe it starts with this, with simply noticing the tension in my shoulders and the breath I’m holding in. Maybe letting go of expectations starts with acknowledging I’ve been trying to do the impossible–and it’s not sustainable. Maybe it sounds like pausing to hear the stillness of the morning. Maybe it feels like moving more slowly down the stairs, noticing the wood beneath my feet and the warmth of my coffee mug in my hands. 

I sit down at my desk and look again at my to-dos. I choose one, and inhale long and slow, considering which of the others to set down. I exhale, my breath letting go, shaky but strong. 

Maybe for now, that is enough.