Here is an example. On Wednesday all three of my boys had a football game. This means two teams, since two of my boys are twins and are on the same team. Get it? Now, there are two football fields, side by side, with the fans sitting in the middle. I park my chair facing the bleachers so I can pretend to pay attention to both fields, when really, I'm just chatting with people or looking at my phone. What can I say? I get bored easy. I look up when people start shouting.
Anyhow, I noticed, and I hope that I am the ONLY one that noticed, that my boys, all three of them, had the dingiest pants on all teams. At that moment, I wore a blinking hat that screamed "Loser mom right here." And that is all it takes for me. It is all I thought about, it is what I talked about, and it was what I obsessed about. I didn't shut-up that jerk living in my head, telling me I sucked, for the rest of the game, or even an hour after I got home.
Here is the thing. (And this is the jerk in my head talking, making excuses as to why I suck.) I don't wash those pants every practice and each boy owns one pair. I only wash them once a week. They each have two practices and one game per week. But apparently, that isn't enough. NO ONE TELLS ME THIS SHIT. And so the meanie in my head tells me I suck, and I feel like a loser.
So, we stopped at Super America (gas station) to buy some bleach. Because I was sure as shit not going to be the nastiest mama on those teams again. I applied Shout to the pants, and bleached the hell out of them. Guess what? They are stained. And the stains didn't come out. I washed them THREE times and it is too late. Then I realized I really don't care. I have to always remind myself that I am my own worst critic, most of the time. I mean, WHO CARES!!
A few things I am not. I am not cut out to be this person who has a perfect house, perfect meals or perfect laundry. Pinterest makes me sick to my stomach, as I posted on Facebook this week. I believe I was born to NOT be in charge of a house and kids. I'm supposed to be married to a stay-at-home dad. Or, maybe I'm supposed to have housekeepers, chefs and nannies. Or maybe I'm supposed to live on the road or something. Which is fine. I'm not feeling sorry for myself about this, I just have to remember to cut myself slack when my stuff isn't as good as everyone else's. This stuff doesn't come naturally to me, and it isn't a big deal that it doesn't. My family is loved, and we do alright. (That is the nice me me talking to the mean me.)
My point to this whole rant is this. I have to work hard constantly at the messages that I tell myself. I am so awful to this woman that is typing, I almost never cut her any slack. The good news is that I am learning how to do this. Sometimes it just takes me a few hours to remember.