Enough is Enough of "Enough"

I stare in the mirror at the dark circles under my eyes. My frazzled bun slides slightly to the side as my 10-month-old tugs happily at a loose curl. When was the last time I put on a full face of make-up? Even if it wasn't much, putting on a little make-up used to be part of my daily routine. I was no model, but at least I felt put together.

Then that little angel that had been cooking for nine months arrived, and suddenly make-up lost its priority status. Why spend time doing my hair and make-up when the only person I see all day cares more about his toy rattle than what shade of eyeshadow I'm wearing?

But I can't pretend I don't notice the difference. I can't pretend I don't examine every new blemish. Have those wrinkled always been there?

Maybe I'm not pretty enough.

I stack blocks in a little tower for the seventeenth time, and my newly walking baby stumbles over to knock it down once again. I try to act excited for him, as if he hasn't done the exact same thing two seconds before. I notice myself zoning out, and try to pull myself back in. As he smiles up at me, waiting for the next thing to destroy, I feel the anxiety trickle back in. Am I talking enough to my baby? We do the same things every day, and as much as I try, I run out of things to say to a baby who doesn't understand most of it anyway. Has he not said a word yet because I'm not interacting enough? I see so many other mothers whose kids seem to be learning so quickly. They have so many clever little activities for their child to learn.

Maybe I'm not trying hard enough.

I stumble back in from my run, unloading my baby in one hand while juggling his snacks, hat, and water in the other. I admit to myself that maybe it wasn't as much of a run as it was a walk. I think guiltily of going to the gym every day, even when I was pregnant. I haven't totally forgotten how often during pregnancy, my OB would point out that I must not be hungry because I certainly have gained a lot of weight. As I nurse my growing baby, I notice how he pokes and pinches the soft belly that hasn't totally returned to its pre-pregnancy size. I think back to the night before, when I chose to eat M&Ms over an apple.

Maybe I'm not healthy enough or thin enough.

I finally get my baby down for his nap. Even now it still hurts to hear him shriek as I leave him in the room. Even though I know it's good for him, I hate thinking that he feels alone. As I listen to his cries subside, I look around. A pile of dirty dishes sit awaiting me in the sink. A pile of laundry is spilling out of its basket. The carpet could probably do with a vacuum, too. I sink into the couch, angry at myself as I give in and grab the TV remote.

Maybe I don't work hard enough.

More out of habit than real interest, I pull out my phone and click on Instagram. I flip through stories and posts of perfect families and beautiful homes. Ads jump out at me from other stay-at-home-mothers who have turned their Instagram page into a thriving business with millions of followers. I know how it'll make me feel, but I still click. I see how they have more kids than me, but somehow they still have perfect hair, perfect outfits, perfect children, perfect homes, perfect vacations, perfect businesses, perfect everything, all while bringing in a hefty income for their family. I feel the hot wave of shame wash over me.

Maybe I'm not ambitious enough.

Then I hear little cries from the other room. My little son has woken from his nap. I heave myself off the couch and go into the room. I flip on the light and see his little face staring at me. His eyes grow wide, and the happiest of smiles spreads across his little face. Bouncing up and down in the crib, he waves his arms out to me to be picked up. As I sweep him up, his little hands find their way around my neck, and he nestles his head into my chest. I feel him softly pinching my skin, and I know that that's how he soothes himself. I know that he is reminding himself that his mommy is here for him to hold and to touch.

For just a moment, the world pauses. My sweet little son looks up at me, and I playfully boop him on the nose. He smiles so big that his pacifier falls out of his mouth. I boop him again. He lets out a high giggle that melts the hurt away. I snuggle him close, and he babbles softly in my ear. He reaches up and begins to tug on my loose curl again. But it's alright with me.

Because I know that to him I am enough.

To him I am Happiness. To him I am Life. To him I am Safety. To him I am Mother. So enough is enough with "enough".