"You can't have it all. They told my generation that you could, but they lied."
So said a mother of a friend of mine, a woman with five grown children and a career.
I wanted to say that it wasn't true. I wanted to tell her how I am having it all, with a cherry on top, and that I can juggle six colicky babies while balancing my checkbook using my toes, inventing clever bedtime stories about chubby hamsters, and creating exciting PowerPoint presentations that defy the drool and snooze-inspiring nature of PowerPoint.
But I couldn't, because I think she's right.
I used to think I could have it all, I just had to redefine what I meant by "it." I could have a fulfilling career, a pampered baby, luxurious shampoo commercial hair, and a loving husband, but would have to sacrifice walking the dog daily, eyebrow waxing, and ever again catching Saturday Night Live live.
That's not redefining. That's nibbling around the edges, giving things up that were no sacrifice.
Now, my definitions of "it" look more like this:
Impressive performance at work, stimulating conversations with hot spouse, well-mannered children, live off of chicken nuggets and cheese sticks and get three hours of sleep per night
Train enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon, family trips to Argentina, make it to work on time, child thinks nanny is Mama
Brain boosting vegetable stamping art projects with children, homemade dinners every night, stimulating side business selling original handknit Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, get pneumonia, wear dirty underwear
Try to wedge it all in, and at least one part of "it" collapses, or ends up being something nobody wants to catch.
For me, the "it" came most recently with a bout of mastitis. Fever, chills, clogged up milk duct swooped in on Friday; thankfully, it went away as quickly as it arrived, with frequent nursing, rest, massage, and warm baths. I thought my first week back at work had been a success, that I was juggling it all with grace (if not clean kitchen counters, homemade meals, or mascara on both sets of eyelashes), until I got sick and my husband threatened to handcuff me to the bed or cart me off to the hospital to enforce rest and recovery.
I'm not very good at balance, at pacing myself, at listening to my body, at breathing deeply. My style is more stick your fingers in your ears and sing la la la la la over the aching quads or growling stomach until you throw up. It's not, as you wise people probably know, a very successful or sustainable approach.
But here it is: I can't do it all. Maybe other women can. I thought I was one of them. I'm not.
"It", here, means having a job I like; performing well at that job; feeling like I'm spending enough time with my children for all of us; regular nights out with my husband; having a clean enough home where I can actually find things; having mental and physical energy to do creative things with my boys; exercising a few days a week; the luxury of a few extra clothes and books and a vacation; keeping up with basic hygiene; writing; fitting into my pants; paying enough attention to the dog that he stops his indoor jealousy pees; reading books that don't have lift-up flaps; going to church; finding time to sit and breathe; spending time with my extended family; going shopping with my mother and talking with my sister-in-law for more than five minutes at a time; taking my sons to the mountains; making homemade baby food and trying new recipes that don't involve a microwave; volunteering at Axel's school and in the community; going to the library; brunch or wine with my friends on a regular basis; frequent hugs and trips to the park; finishing the baby sweater I started knitting when I was pregnant with Axel; knowing I still have an ounce of patience left for a driver that cuts me off or a check-out clerk who moves at a the pace of a sloth or tackling potty training. Oh, and doing it all without getting sick.
I can't earn a 10 in work, motherhood, friendships, family, and the throwing of dinner parties. I can't even get a respectable 7.2 with a gold star for effort in all of them.
And I don't want to be exhausted and make myself sick because I stubbornly keep on trying.
