Tag Archives: having it all

You Can’t Have It All

Recently the CEO of Pepsi, Indra Nooyi, notable for being both highly successful and one of the few females on the Fortune500 scene, was interviewed about her role as CEO and mother. In a moment of honesty, and I would argue courage, she said, “I don’t think women can have it all. I just don’t think so. We pretend we have it all. We pretend we can have it all.”

I’ve been thinking about that this past week. A lot. Over and over and over. I have a feeling a lot of parents are thinking about that. For me, parenting has brought with it a whole slew of choices: deciding what’s most important, letting go of non-essentials, shifting the focus of my time and energy to be about the tiny person I pushed into the world.

And when it comes down to it, I don’t think I’m alone in feeling like too often it seems there are not enough hours in the day to accomplish all that I want to accomplish.

For example, there has been a whole colony of fruit flies forming, taking down their oral and written history, and setting up a permanent civilization in our kitchen. We’ve tried various home remedies to combat the problem, but for the most part the fruit flies are winning. This has been causing me a lot of inner turmoil. Words like “dirty”, “unclean”, “inept”, and “bad housekeeper” flash across the screensaver of my mind.

Then there’s this ongoing quest to get back to my pre-baby weight. So there’s the workouts and the food plans. First no sugar. Or maybe just less sugar. Or maybe no gluten. More running? Less eating? Maybe Cross Fit is the answer? Or maybe it’s this new diet that comes straight from France, because every single French person is skinny (and expert parents, too, just FYI). Meanwhile, the scale has not budged. At least not in the right direction.

Then there’s the stuff. Because in order to be the best mom, you need the Sophie giraffe. And the miracle blankets. The right school in the neighborhood with the high property taxes. The organic baby food made in small batches by local farmers. The stuff that is so easy to put on credit cards, payments saved for a later date. A later date that is now today. That is now yesterday.

Kim Kardashian took Indra Nooyi to task, stating that you can have it all. It’s just about priorities. Maybe that’s working for her. And I’m happy for her. I guess. But the snarky side of me wants to say, “Sure, I could have it all if I had your money, Kim.” Throw a few million dollars at the problem and see if that doesn’t change my situation.

And then the other part of me thinks, oh great. So I’m failing on the priorities thing, too. It’s my fault that I don’t have it all. If I tried a little harder, then I wouldn’t feel guilty, my house would be clean, wardrobe perfect, bills paid, and I’d have a booty to win the hearts of every rapper in America.

But my brain keeps shaking the mouse in my mind, keeps preventing the auto-scroll of the screen-saver, keeps yelling, “What does it even MEAN to have it all? Who says you have to have it all? Who defines ALL?

What if the key to “having it all” lies in being satisfied with having enough?

It’s exhausting, the frantic grab at more. I’m so…tired… And I have to believe that is for more reasons than the fact that my son is still not sleeping in his crib with any success (which we can add to my list of what I don’t have).

In her song, As Is, Ani Difranco sings, “When I look around, I think…this is good enough… When I said I’ll take it, I meant “as is”.”

Let me look around.

I have fruit flies. And I have a kitchen. And fruit.

I have stretch marks and a soft belly. And I have son. I have legs strong enough to let me run and arms strong enough to rock my child to sleep.

I have more things in my house than I could use. We keep taking carloads to Good Will and still there is more, more, more.

I have it all. At least, I do when I’m willing to be satisfied with what I have. When I take a big deep breath and put down the fork, put down the credit card, but down the broom, and just let myself notice the plenty all around me.

I agree with Indra Nooyi. I read her article and tears came to my eyes because it was such a relief to hear someone willing to say that life is full of choices, and some choices eliminate other choices. This is more real to me in my thirties than it was in my twenties, and I can only imagine the clarity intensifies with age. And she’s right to say that she can’t be the Pinterest-mom who cooks the perfect meal, hand-makes the kids’ Valentines, and acquire Quaker Oats for PepsiCo all at the same time. You have to choose.

For me, those choices can seem impossible.

But what if I started making my choices from a place of gratitude instead of a place of deficit. What if I started each day in the way of my friend who says, “I thank God for waking me up this morning”? What if the intake of breath was a meditation, a prayer of thanks for another chance, another moment, another second to make another choice? How would that change the conversation about who has it all?

If the CEO of Pepsi can admit to her feelings of guilt and inadequacy, maybe it’s time to own mine. If she can stop pretending, maybe it’s time for me to, too. Maybe it’s time to look around and say, “I’ll take it, as is.”

Hi, my name is Rachel. I don’t have it all. But I have way more than enough.

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261755_10150290602379874_2436766_nRachel

The Brutal Honesty of a Photograph

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My dad recently posted some photos from our family’s time together at Easter. They are beautiful. They all show our smiling, happy faces, many surrounded by the lush and rich foliage from the nature conservatory we visited. I loved them all.

All except one. There was one I didn’t love. It was the one of my dad, my son, and me. Actually, it was the only one of me. And let me be clear, my dad and my son look great. But I look like a total bummer.

There are a lot of reasons for this. Like, the intensive sleep deficit my husband and I were rocking, due to our choice to drive through the night to get to my family’s house. We got there in record time, without the requisite hourly stops made when my son is awake. We also got there at three in the morning, and two weeks later I think it is safe to say we haven’t fully made up the sleep gap.

Also, my family has this thing about using local and organic and natural (the real natural, not the natural stamped onto Cheetos so you can fool yourself into thinking you’re being healthy) products. I am in favor of this completely. Except when it comes to shampoo. Natural shampoo is the equivalent of rubbing Aquaphor by the handfuls into my fine and oily-prone hair. So besides the bags under my eyes, my hair looks like an Italian mobster’s toupee.

But the biggest bummer of all, perhaps, is the fact that the picture is breathtakingly honest. That’s pretty much what I look like these days. Even without long distant late night drives and lotion shampoo, I generally have bags under my eyes and greasy, sloppy hair. This is what my life has become.

When I saw the picture I started down a shame spiral. How in the world had I become one of those women? You know the ones. They find a guy, settle down, and let themselves go. Also, everyone else looks put together in the photographs. Why couldn’t I at least have brushed my hair? Was that sweatshirt really necessary? Why so baggy and dirty? Is my face always so splotchy? Oy vey. You get the idea.

I started making resolutions about what I wouldn’t eat and what I would buy to make my hair shiny. I thought about the manicures and pedicures and hair cuts and wardrobes necessary to return me to my pre-baby, pre-“letting myself go” glory. I even wrote a full ending to this blog about taking care of myself and prioritizing mommy’s needs. Which I think is important.

But the more I have thought about it, the more I have been remembering the day. The day that the photo was taken.

That day, after months of waiting, I woke up in my parents’ house and got to have breakfast with my dad. I watched my son play with his cousins. I had lunch with my mom. My dad and I took the dogs to the dog park and met really enthusiastic dog owners. (Are there any other kind?)

Then we went to the conservatory and looked at the flowers. A hush fell over my son the moment his stroller entered the fern room. He was mesmerized by the plants, often close enough to rip off chunks and immediately eat them. We took the mandatory family photos by the fountain with the naked girl and my mom got her grandma/grandson snapshot. We breathed deep the rich, oxygenated air, filling up on the green we’ve been missing for the past six months.

We went home and twelve of us squeezed around a table growing too small in a kitchen growing too small to hold the abundance of new members, married and birthed in over the past three years. While eating bowls of lentil soup we laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Because that’s what my family does. Then we played games and laughed some more. And ate some more, of course, because that’s also what my family does.

All of this I accomplished with greasy hair and baggy, out of date clothes. All of this, with the food stains and the glasses that are askew from being grabbed by my curious son too many times. All of this with the fatigue that is my familiar blanket. All of this.

I want so badly to be the person who can do it all. I want to have the career. And I do. I want the perfect house. And I (mostly) do. I have the husband and the kid, the car and the memberships. But I want to do it all with nice nails, long hair that wasn’t poorly cut during a disastrous Groupon mistake. Oh, and clean, trendy clothes. Maybe even a little make-up.

And those are things that I feel like I could have if I just tried a little bit harder. If I just bought the right cream or took the time to blow dry my hair.

But remembering that day makes me feel foolish.

Could I spend more time on my hair? Of course. Will I ever? Probably not. Because frankly, my dear, I just don’t give a damn. Or at least, not enough of a damn. There’s just too many other things that I care about too much more than whether or not my hair is washed with Vaseline, or if it is washed with Aveda.

Hear me out, I’m still going to buy the Aveda shampoo, mind you, next time I go to the salon (which should be soon because honestly, the Groupon hair disaster is still haunting me). I still like to pretend that there will come a day when I will buy the magic soap that will transform my skin in a single use. Or the super shampoo that will erase the need for blow drying, styling, and productifying. (I told you, I don’t do those things. I don’t even know the appropriate words for them.)

But in case I never do, and because I know I won’t (at least for not any meaningful length of time), I have to remind myself that a picture is just a picture. Sure, it will scroll across the computer screen at my parents’ home forever and ever amen. But it is just a picture.

And I choose the moment and memory. Even with the greasy hair.

261755_10150290602379874_2436766_nRachel