Girl, you’re
not going crazy.
Seriously, I
don’t care if…
Your kids
tell you you’re crazy because you have repeated yourself exactly eight times in
four minutes…
Your husband
looks at you with one eyebrow raised, like he’s just a little bit scared
because you asked him the same question six times in one hour…
You lost
your crap on one of your kids because they walked into the room the wrong way
and it annoyed you…
You can’t
remember anything without writing it down, when a few years ago you could keep
track of ten appointments, your shopping list, your kids homework assignments,
deadlines at work, bill due dates and a week’s worth of meal plans all in your
head without ever missing a beat…
You showed
up to work with your shirt on inside out….
True story…I was on my way to a meeting with a client and
stopped at my fav coffee hut for my daily shot of that which I cannot function
without (ok, I just recently discovered it’s a whopping 11 shots if I’m being
honest, holy crap! 😲) and my dear, sweet,
twenty something barista who is always smiling and always dressed super
cute with gorgeous curly locks says to me, “Girl….did you know your shirt is on
inside out?” No, no I did not. Good lord, can I not even dress myself
anymore? With no time to go home and
correct the situation, because you know, as usual I’m running late, that helpful
young lady suggests I pull up behind a building and do a quick switcheroo. And so I did.
I apologize to anyone who had the misfortune to witness that.
I mean, I
could go on and on about the ways in which we FEEL like we’re going crazy. Let me tell you, you’re not going crazy. I’m not going crazy. There is no crazy here, ladies.
It’s called living
life in the hood. Motherhood.
Your hood is
where you live, where you’re from, where your heart is, where your homies
are. It’s a beautiful place.
But it’s
also a place where a lot of shit goes down. A lot of rough, smack you in the
face, make you want to down a bottle of tequila and six tacos shit. Maybe even a bowl of guac and a bag of chips while you're at it. Throw in a few Reese's cups for good measure and call it good.
And all that shit that's going down? It usually means one thing. Stress. That evil sneaky piece of #$@*. It will get you. Get you good, my pretty.
The day I
realized I wasn’t going crazy is the day I also realized something else. I can’t do it all, at least without
consequences. There, I said it. My name is Brandy and I can’t do it all. And you know what else? I don’t want to do it all anymore. I used to be able to do it all and make it
look pretty damn easy. I could bring
home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. I
could work full time, do the grocery shopping, pay the bills, juggle soccer
practice, guitar lessons, scout meetings, be PTA President, den mother, help in
my kid’s classes, keep the house moderately clean, nurse sick kids, help with
homework, throw Pinterest worthy birthday parties, buy my husband’s underwear
so he didn’t end up wearing pink Fruit of the Looms. Yeah, I’ll explain.
Another true story, one Joe will likely not be thrilled I
shared but it’s kind of a beginning of sorts for me. When I started to figure out I couldn’t do it
all and stay sane, I started with the other adult in the house. Joe, buy your own damn underwear. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like Joe
couldn’t buy his own underwear or needed me to do it. It’s just something I did. I’m a caretaker, I enjoy taking care of
things for people. He hates to shop, I
enjoy shopping and am in the stores more often, so it just made sense. Why did I choose to start with this random,
menial task? I don’t fricking know. Joe’s like, no problem, I can buy my own damn
underwear. So he gets on Amazon and
orders a pack. Easy peasy. The Fruit of the Looms show up and it’s a
multipack of pink, purple and turquoise briefs.
He missed one tiny detail; there was a color choice. Of course I thought this was hilarious (him
not so much) and shared it with a friend, who when she saw him next, asked if
he was wearing his pink panties. We died
laughing! All jokes aside, the pink
panty incident is an important reminder that it’s the details, ladies. All the fricking little details, like making
sure you order the right color of underwear, that add up over time and can
become overwhelming and stressful.
Girl, it all may have looked easy, but it wasn’t. Do I regret it? No way. If I had it to do over, I’d probably do it the same. But I can’t anymore. And more importantly, I don't want to. And that’s ok. It’s time for change.
My name is
Brandy and I can’t do it all. And I’m
not going crazy. I live in a hood where
shit goes down and I love it and hate it, it builds me up and tears me down,
and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
My family
and treasured friends live in that hood, and so does that sweet barista who had
my back. Too many of my sistas in the
hood are stressed out and feel like they are going crazy. We’re gonna change that. Girl, we got this.
