stress

It’s funny. So many times I sit down at the computer ready to write about some idea or thought that has been churning in my head for a few days – the experience of motherhood so far, meeting up with a dear friend in Nairobi, the current political situation in our home area now that the South is independent, yada, yada, yada – and yet it takes about two seconds for me to realize that what I thought I was thinking about is not what I was really thinking about at all and what I thought I was going to write about is not what I am going to end up writing about in the end afterall. Motherhood has made time for self-indulgent reflection on a computer screen harder to come by so my blogs may get a little less refined and a little more stream-of-consciousness as I rush to type and hit “publish” before someone wakes up from her increasingly short naps. So my apologies.  

I am stressed. There is no need to go into the details. It’s a lot of things, any one of which I feel like I could handle quite well on its own, maybe even if they showed up in pairs, but the flash mob of political insecurity, new baby, language learning (and re-learning), ever-changing travel-back-to-the-States-for-a-visit plans, temporarily difficult housing situation and the three million bug bites on my torso all together feel like a lot (okay, the last one isn’t really that big a deal but in context it feels far worse). And on top of the frustration of each of these things is the guilt that comes with knowing I chose them, and would choose them all over again in a heartbeat (with the exception of the bug bites). I want to live here in this house with no running water. I want to be in the middle of rebel-held territory in a political tenuous time. I want to learn (and re-learn) Arabic even if my brain occasionally explodes. And God help me, I want this precious baby that seems to be allergic to sleep as long as the sun is out because I love her so much my heart occasionally explodes right along with my brain. I want all these things so badly. So what right do I have to let them all make me want to scream bloody murder some days?

At least that is how I feel. In the rubble of my exploded brain I can still sift out enough logic to question how much sense that really makes. But I have inherited my mother’s superwoman demons and their own twisted logic still works astoundingly well on me. How can you be so weak? How can you be so (heaven forbid!) normal? I thought you were tough. Suck it up. Jog it off. Stuff in down and keep on trucking until things clear up. 

I suppose I should be grateful for opportunities like this where I am gracefully reminded that “superwoman” status for me is about as attainable as ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. I cannot do this on my own, nor should I want to. So really, maybe this season of stress is a blessing.  For one, I know it will soon pass, just like every other stress in life eventually does. But also, it makes me slow down and just concentrate on what is most important. Like being a good mama. And a good wife. Like taking a deep breath and admitting to a friend who has been there once or twice too, that yes, this is freaking hard. Like partly dreading going to visit a neighbor because I know my conversation skills are at the level of a four-year old, but going anyway. Like taking the time to frame a few family pictures and put much-loved books back on the shelf, even if they do get tossed right back in an evacuation bag here in a few weeks. The important stuff. Thank goodness for the stress that makes me see it.