Rolling into the end of the first week back at nursing
school and I…am…whipped. I also realized something last night, something
important that I want to bounce off the rest of you mamas out there. See, I’m
32 years old. My oldest son starts high school this year, which means he’ll be
a sophomore before I have my nursing license in hand. If I continue my
education any further, we’re going to end up going to college together.
I realized last night that although I’m excited to be going
back to school, I’m also embarrassed. Embarrassed to still be a student at this
stage in my life. Embarrassed to be seeking an associate’s degree to begin
gainful employment at the point where my peers have completed their education-or,
if they haven’t, are looking at graduate degrees while building their career.
My kids’ pediatrician is my age, and one of the girls I went
to middle school with is a dermatologist with her own practice. And here I am.
Now, intellectually, I know there’s nothing wrong with this.
I slipped in and out of college as my kids were born. I worked for a number of
years in a job that allowed me to work from home from the time my youngest was
born until he was in second grade. I’m not the oldest in my class by any
means-there are a number of women who are re-entering the workforce after
staying home with their kids, and many more who are switching careers like I
am.
I have three beautiful, fun, well-mannered, well-rounded
children. I’m celebrating my 12th wedding anniversary this year. We
own our home, and while money is tight the fact that I’m working sporadically
while going back to school isn’t killing us financially. All in all, I’m in a
good place in life. And yet part of me feels like I have something to be ashamed
of, and that, I think, is due largely in part to the way I feel I should
measure my success.
At this point, I feel like I should be as financially sound
as my friends without children, as well-educated as those that spent their
twenties getting doctorate degrees and MDs, my house should be as clean and
organized and decorated as Home and Garden, I should be as crafty as all those
moms out there that actually have…well…talent (because God knows my daughter
sure didn’t get her crafting skills from me) and as engaged in my kids’
classrooms and education and activities as moms who have one child they’ve been
at home with since the day they were born.
And I wonder why I’m stressed.
Right now, I need to take a step back and think, really
think, about what success means-and make it personal to ME, not to anyone
around me. For me, right now, success means doing well enough in nursing school
that I pass my licensing exam and have no trouble being accepted into a
bachelor’s and, eventually, nurse practitioner program. It means keeping the
house clean enough and organized enough that I’m a raging, raving mess by the
end of the week. (I learned last semester that a messy house and an empty
fridge really stress me out. You don’t even know.)
It’s having time every night to sit down and eat dinner with
my family, and being able to watch an episode of something on TV and tuck my
kids in at night. It’s taking Princess C to dance and going to Open House at
the elementary and high school on Open House night. It’s seeing the boys do
well, and mastering homeschooling to the point where Princess C both enjoys
herself and learns at the level I know she’s capable of. It’s saving up enough
money to take a vacation someplace besides our parents’ houses, and maybe
actually get that rickety garage pulled down sometime before Mother Nature does
the job for me.
These are my goals, and they’re the ones I need to use to
measure my success-not anyone else’s. It’s past time I stop expecting myself to
be perfect and start expecting myself to be me.
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