We were starting to panic. Short with the kids and snipping at each other we were running red lights and ignoring the speed limit.
We were late.
Running between back-to-back-to-back events that Monday evening after putting in full days at work and school, we were feeling the crunch. Each event ran later than planned, putting us further and further behind to the point that now we were far past the starting time of the final event of the evening, still a long ways from arrival, and all we could do was stress about our failure.
The worst part was we had done this to ourselves.
At the beginning of parenthood I had sworn we would never be one of “those” families. We wouldn’t overschedule ourselves to death. I pitied those I saw running frantically every night. Dance classes, music lessons, sporting events. And all for what? We were never going to do that!, I said self-righteously.
I watched during Covid lockdowns when the world came to a screeching halt as families realized how enjoyable it was to not have to run here and there and then there and back here. See?, I chided. Maybe they’ll learn what’s important.
But as soon as lockdowns were lifted and “life” resumed, everyone picked up right where they left off. And we found out how easy it was to become overscheduled. Activities multiply like rabbits.
Two kids + 1 event each = 2 nights per week. Two parents with their own single commitments = 2 nights per week. A married couple trying to stay committed to their marriage and their own growth = 1 night per week. 2+2+1 = We’ll rest when the kids graduate.
We hit every red light that night in varying stages of orange. When I didn’t blow through a very solid red light despite my husband’s vigorous urgings to keep going, the realization hit me: We had done this to ourselves.
We had chosen to sign up for these activities. We had chosen to attend this class. We had even paid good money to do some of these things. So for us to stress, freak, yell, and put ourselves through hell for it all was asinine. No one was making us do these things or be involved to this level.
I took a deep breath as we sat at that light trying to settle my Type A personality that lives and dies by a watch. My husband huffing and puffing in the passenger seat next to me as he tried not to yell at me for being a good driver. “We chose to do all these things,” I told us both. “If we’re going to be raving fucking lunatics in the process then none of it is worth it.”
Somewhere along the way we became convinced that to not do all the things was a sign of failure. More. More. More! Wear it like a badge and let others bow down at our super-human ability to juggle it all.
Except no one is bowing. There are no awards for Best Busyness. No podium of honor to stand upon. No statue will be erected for me because I had each of my kids in three activities each season. Especially if doing any of it causes me and everyone around me pain and ulcers.
If we’re going to be raving fucking lunatics in the process, then none of it is worth it.