Chasing Superwoman

by Susan DiMickele

  TWELVE

  Will I Ever Be Content?

  I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.

  Philippians 4:12–13

  We’ve all had one of those days. It all started in my parking garage, earlier that morning. First, you have to understand my baggage with the garage. Our building management got the bright idea that they could squeeze more money out of the parking spots if they painted the lines closer together. An average-sized vehicle can barely fit between the lines. And don’t plan on being able to comfortably get out of your car without smacking the car next to you. Several times when I was pregnant, I actually had to crawl through the hatchback to get out. And I always have car filth on my suit from rubbing against the car next to me. My wagon is scratched, dented, and relatively compact. As long as I park in this garage, I have vowed that I am never getting a new car.

  I drove Doug’s oversized SUV to work once. I knew it was a bad idea to even attempt to drive that beast into my parking garage, especially after I had hit the side of the house, but my wagon was in the shop and I had again underestimated my limitations. I should have stuck with my instincts. You guessed it, I couldn’t make the sharp turn into one of those tiny parking spots, and I ended up swiping a metal pole. Have I mentioned how much I hate driving his vehicle?

  So I’m bitter about this garage to begin with. Every time I pass that metal pole on level 2, my blood starts to boil and I wonder how many other people have had their days ruined (or their spouse’s day ruined) by this garage. On this particular day, there were no decent spots, so I squeezed my wagon into the best space possible. Besides, I would be leaving the garage in just a few hours for Abby’s pediatrician appointment. It’s not like I would have to occupy a lousy spot for the whole day.

  It’s always a challenge to make a 10:15 a.m. doctor appointment after spending a short morning in the office. Why had I even bothered to come to work? I would get stuck on a conference call or, worse yet, one of my senior partners would plop himself down in my office and refuse to leave. But difficult or not, I had to get a few things off my desk that morning and I managed to make a clean exit, putting me back in the garage just before 10:00 a.m. I immediately noticed a note on my windshield. How unusual, I thought. It’s not even Christmas, and my secret Santa is already leaving me letters. Or maybe it was one of my friends pretending to be the Easter Bunny—Easter was just around the corner, and I was sure it would be some kind of encouraging note.

  I reached on my windshield to find anything but a word of encouragement. It read, “Park in the lines, you idiot!” I laughed out loud. I have never been proud of my driving, but no one can take away my sense of humor. I had more important things to do with my day than get upset about a nasty note.

  I quickly forgot about the note and raced to pick up Abby for her appointment, where her pediatrician would undoubtedly diagnose another ear infection. On the way to the doctor’s office, I was sitting at an intersection and minding my own business when another driver laid on her horn. Unbeknownst to me, I was blocking the entrance to the bank, and she was trying to make a turn. No, I wasn’t talking on my cell phone or daydreaming, and I wasn’t even multitasking. Rather than waiting for the light to turn green or giving me a friendly toot, she laid on her horn and gave me an obscene gesture.

  I really had no incentive to reciprocate the gesture, but at this point in the day I started to wonder why people are so rude. Even more perplexing is fathoming who has time to be rude. Someone in my parking garage had to pull out a blank sheet of paper and handwrite me a note and place it on my windshield just to tell me I’m an idiot. Did he or she really think that note was going to make me a better driver? I don’t have time to write notes to people I don’t know about problems I can’t solve in a parking garage I didn’t design. Don’t people have better things to do with their time?

  After the pediatrician, Abby and I were waiting in line at the pharmacy for her antibiotic when a woman swooped in front of me and announced, “There’s a line, you know.” I bit my tongue and smiled politely. The woman looked about my age. There wasn’t even a line formed, yet she expected me to have mental telepathy and know otherwise. Who wants to hover around the pharmacy desk in a crammed line while the pharmacist explains the unpleasant side effects of someone else’s medicine? Not me. The pharmacy desk has a big sign that says, “Please, for privacy concerns, only one person approach the pharmacy at a time.” Of course, this stops people from making a line. I was just trying to follow the rules.

  I realize this woman wasn’t trying to ruin my day, but I had already been called an idiot, honked and sworn at, and I had a sick baby with an ear infection and a conference call that I had to get on in about fifteen minutes. Poor Abby was probably going to have to wait for her first dose of medicine until after my conference call. And then I was going to have to try to work from home the rest of the day, which meant I would get absolutely nothing done.

  So, by Anna’s bedtime, I was putting her to bed when she asked, “Why are you mad at me?” At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “What do you mean, honey?” I hadn’t yelled at her. I hadn’t put her in time-out. And we had just finished reading one of her favorite stories.

  She went on, “Why do you have your mean face on tonight?”

  Unfortunately, she was right. I hadn’t cracked a smile since I had gotten home. I had let the day get the best of me, and now I was taking it out on my children. It was only Tuesday, and I was more than ready for the weekend.

  The Weekend … Finally

  By the time the weekend rolled around, Abby was finally feeling better, and I decided to take the girls to Barnes & Noble for a special Saturday morning outing to buy a couple of books for Easter. Anna and Abby wanted a cookie and hot chocolate, and I got my usual double-tall, nonfat latte and found a magazine, and we planted ourselves at a comfortable spot at the café. The girls were better-behaved than usual—no fighting, screaming, or whining—and they were even taking turns talking. Anna kept asking if tomorrow was Easter, and Abby kept repeating everything Anna said, a little louder and with just the right amount of inflection. I reminded them that the hot chocolate was really hot, and to hold it with two hands. Anna proclaimed that it was the best hot chocolate she had ever had in her life and I thought to myself, life just doesn’t get much better than this. Here I am, hanging out in a coffee shop with my two beautiful girls. The thought of it warmed my heart as I sipped my latte. It hadn’t been such a bad week after all. Thank God for the weekend.

  Then I heard a man yelling at someone behind me. I couldn’t completely understand him, but he was swearing, and obviously upset. So I turned around. He was packing up his things on the table behind me, but there was no one around him. Then it occurred to me. He was yelling at me. I looked right at him, but he wouldn’t even look back. Instead, he stomped across the café and found an empty table on the other side. But what had I done to him? Why was this middle-aged, bearded man full of such anger and rage?

  Then it occurred to me. He was a MECH. Otherwise known as a Middle-Aged Elitist Child Hater. All of a sudden, I wanted to put on my lawyer cape and squash him like a bug. Not only was he a MECH, he was a leech! He was reading some technical manual that he definitely wasn’t going to purchase, and he wasn’t even buying a refill for his coffee. As a paying customer, I had every right to be in that café with my children. We had already bought two books, a cookie, two hot chocolates, plus my latte. He’s too cheap to even buy the book he was reading, yet he wants me to move so that he can have some space! Obviously, he was jealous of me and my beautiful children, and he probably knows deep down that he will never have children of his own because no one wants to marry him. Or worse y
et, he’s probably going through a midlife crisis, left his wife and children, and drives a red, two-seater sports car with no room for car seats. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but Devoted Mommy gained control, we quietly finished the cookie and hot chocolate, and we left the café without encounter. After all, I wasn’t going to let a MECH ruin a perfect Saturday with my girls. Or was I?

  I was still mad when I got home. The nerve of him! I should head back to the store and show him what a real tantrum looks like. He thought the girls were loud—wait until he sees them in full-blown meltdown mode. I could arrange an encounter he would never forget!

  Then I remembered what life was like before I had children. I used to look at those mothers with strollers who blocked the aisles in stores and think, “Don’t you think about anyone else in the world but yourself? Other people are trying to shop here!” And I used to go to the bookstore to find a quiet spot just to study, and I even got annoyed a few times when mothers brought in their loud obnoxious children.

  Of course my girls hadn’t been the slightest bit obnoxious, but maybe I had the MECH all wrong. Maybe he has a house full of kids at home and was just trying to get out for a morning. Okay, probably not. But maybe, like me, he had had a lousy week and he just needed some peace and quiet. Had I become one of those self-absorbed mothers who thinks the world revolves around her children?

  So after I got home and cooled off, I decided to pray for the MECH. I prayed that he would deal with his issues, whatever they may be, and that his anger would bring him closer to God. And I thanked God for showing me that sometimes I get a little too self-righteous and I need to take a good look in the mirror.

  Spoiled Rotten

  If I’m really honest, I have to admit that most days I fit right in with the MECH and the other rude folks who leave notes on my car and honk at the light. Maybe I don’t write anonymous notes, give obscene gestures, or thrown tantrums in coffee shops, but I’m always mad at someone. Starting with the office. I complain when I’m busy at work—but not nearly as much as I complain when I’m slow. The associate on the project didn’t find the right research. The filing was late. Someone forgot to tell me about a meeting. I’m late for an interview. My realization rate is too low. My billing rate is too high. My email is down again. I keep getting put on hold when I call the help desk. We don’t have enough staffing to meet the deadline. And most clients wanted an answer yesterday. Good is never good enough.

  It’s not like things are any better at home. I’m mad at Doug for not helping me put the kids to bed. “Do I have to do everything myself around here?” I say it under my breath, but just loud enough for him to hear. And he forgot to call about Nick’s hockey registration again even though I reminded him ten times. I’m mad at the kids because they won’t listen to me. Nick and Anna keep teasing Abby about her big-girl underwear, and Abby keeps saying the word poop, which makes Nick and Anna howl with laughter, and no one is going to get settled down before bed and I’m going to be up half the night again trying to get everything done.

  Then I start into my personal pity party. You haven’t held my job, been married to my husband, raised my kids, or paid my mortgage. No one understands, and I’m getting pretty tired of holding it all together myself.

  Not to mention I’m getting more high maintenance by the day. I expect the finest food, the best accommodations, and the best price. Haven’t you ever heard of customer service? And the smallest things set me off these days—a low tank of gas, a line at the grocery store, Abby’s tantrums, the neighbor kids parked in front of my house, and, yes, even spilled milk.

  Doug joins me and complains, “I can’t wait until she’s out of diapers” and “If we could only skip the terrible twos.” This makes me even more upset, and I yell at him for trying to rush my last baby. But then I catch myself doing the same thing.

  “A year from now, we’ll have cut our day-care costs in half,” or, “In five years at least we’ll have some money saved for college.”

  Bills. Child care. Kids’ activities. Dinners out. More bills. Gifts. Travel. Remodeling. Then we start freaking out about saving for retirement. Will we have enough? It’s completely irrational. We’re going to work harder and longer so that when we’re too old or sick to really enjoy ourselves we don’t have to worry about money. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for delayed gratification, but whatever happened to daily bread?

  Our church regularly says the Lord’s Prayer in worship. I keep getting stuck on daily bread.

  “Give us this day our daily bread.”

  It doesn’t say give us bread for next year or even next week. And we’re supposed to request bread on this day—apparently the same day we eat it. God knew what He was doing when He told the Israelites to take just enough manna for one day at a time. If I were an Israelite in the wilderness, I would probably try to store too much manna, and it would get worms. Sometimes I wonder, Why is it so hard for me to be content with what I have?

  I know that God is speaking to me in the midst of my pity party. “You’re spoiled rotten, Susan. Get over yourself, okay?” He says it a little nicer than that, but I get the point.

  Then, when I pretend like I don’t hear Him, He shows me other people in my life who are hurting. Often they are mothers, and when I look at their journeys it reminds me to “be content with what you have.”1 I don’t know why I can’t see this myself—why I can’t be not only content but completely thankful for everyone and everything in my life—but sometimes it helps to put myself in someone else’s shoes.

  A Matter of Perspective

  God uses Big-Hearted Betty, the first woman who ever watched my children, on a regular basis to show me just how much I have to be thankful for. She always tells me to enjoy these times and appreciate life while my kids are young. She should know. Her world as a single mother changed when her middle son, Mike, was seventeen. She blames herself for letting him go out one night with a group of friends and always says, “If only I would have stopped him.” Mike never reached his eighteenth birthday because of a fatal car accident, and Betty has never gotten over the heartache. As any mother would, she always asks God why He let this happen. She was even at a prayer meeting the night before his death. Yet she doesn’t blame God; she still blames herself.

  Shortly after Betty’s oldest boy, Terry, turned forty, his cancer set in. Terry died shortly after his forty-first birthday, and since his death Betty’s ache is too deep to even talk about. How many mothers have lost two of their three sons to untimely deaths? The stress has nearly killed her, and had she not fought so hard to live she would have died of a broken heart. It’s really too much heartache for one woman to bear. But Betty still continues to fight, and she loves little children more than anything because they remind her of better days.

  So when Big-Hearted Betty gives me advice, I try to listen. She always says to me, “Susan, these are the best years of your life. I’d do anything to have my kids back again.”

  When I look at my kids, I’m just thankful to have them and hold them. I forget about my parking garage, rude drivers, and the MECH. I even forget about how much I have to do at work, or my need to save more for retirement. And when I start to have a pity party, I’m reminded of Big-Hearted Betty.

  On Mother’s Day, the kids woke me up and gave me cards and homemade presents in bed. It was better than Christmas morning. Nick and Anna had made me a scrapbook of baby pictures and family photos, which Nick had titled The Book of Memories. I barely noticed that the glue was so thick that the pictures were lumpy and wet. And I didn’t care that they had used all the rejects that didn’t make it into the family album. It was the nicest gift I had ever received.

  Then I thought about Big-Hearted Betty. Would anyone take the time to make her feel special on Mother’s Day? Her sons would be looking down from heaven and smiling, but I still had to call her. But when? After presents and breakfast we were off to churc
h. Then lunch. Five loads of laundry. Housecleaning for guests. I started to get emails from work around midday. (Who in her right mind works on Mother’s Day?) I ignored the emails through dinner but then returned a few messages. More cleanup and playtime. I had to get the kids in bed early for school. Baths. Stories. Prayers. I looked at my watch. I had forgotten to call Big-Hearted Betty. Better late than never, I gave her a call after the kids went to bed. She picked up the phone and started to cry. She had spent the day alone. No phone calls. No cards. No scrapbooks.

  After I hung up the phone, I shed a few tears and thanked God again for using Big-Hearted Betty to show me how much I really have. Like the apostle Paul, Big-Hearted Betty knows what it’s like to live in plenty and to have need.

  My children also help me put things in perspective on a regular basis. Like Anna. Anna is the most content child I know. It doesn’t take much to make her happy. A blank sheet of paper and markers. Time alone in her room. Listening to music. Going to the park. Mommy picking her up from school. Playing beauty shop, and doing Mom’s hair. She rarely asks for more, and she’d rather spend time than money. Last year at Disney World, I took her to all the shows and paid to have her dressed up like a princess. By the second day, she was tired and ready to go back to the hotel. So instead of dragging her to more shows, rides, and long lines, we went back to the hotel and lay down. She turned all the lights off, put on her own show with flashlights, and then we went swimming. It was one of the best days we had together in a long time.

  When we got home, everyone asked her about Disney. What was your favorite part? Did you get to see all the princesses? Anna announced to everyone that her favorite part of the trip was—you guessed it—“swimming at the hotel with Mom.” In other words, we could have rented a hotel down the street with a swimming pool and spent the day together. Some lessons come with a heavy price tag.