This week, I told my kids they were on their own for meals and laundry because I have a book to write. They’re on fall break, and they’re old enough to fend for themselves, so I decided I was only going to write and take care of myself this week. No laundry. No vaccuuming. Minimal dishes. Sleeping in. Watching shows I want to catch up on. Walking with my dog. And art. Lots and lots of art. There have been moments when I’ve feared for my children’s sodium levels, but by and large they’ve been just fine. It turns out, they had no problem taking care of themselves. The problem was me.
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I’ve never been good at having healthy boundaries. In my family, we are very much ride or die. We will show up for each other at any time. We will give each other the shirt off our backs. We will gladly hand over whatever amount of money is needed to help each other. We also, at times, are not so great at saying no. I’m not saying we’re total people pleasers, but we do sometimes border on a level of self sacrifice that’s not super healthy. It’s tough, because we’re loyal. But even loyalty needs limits.
It took me a lot of years to learn that I am allowed to prioritize my own needs. I was always deeply empathetic and eager to help others. In high school, I gave friends rides all the time, even if I had somewhere else to be. College came with long hours in studio where I’d happily share my 2am bagel with my classmates even if I was starving. Getting married and becoming a parent made my boundaries even worse. I grew two whole human beings inside my body, rent free, for nearly 10 months, breast fed them for almost a year after that, and lugged around bottles and sippy cups at ALL TIMES even though I was often parched myself.
This week, I was determined to do the impossible: put myself first. My boys are grown enough that they don’t even need me for rides very much. They like to cook together. They even enjoy me giving them the space to make what they would like for once. And still, I would periodically find myself in the kitchen, making sure they had something to eat. At one point, my 17yo said, “Mom, just go write your book.”
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