Love Looks Like Maybe

Ryan, your love looks like...

pouring your curated craft liquors down the drain
ordering Rachel Held Evan’s book
scooping kitty litter and braving Costco on a Saturday
meeting with a Life/Dad coach
learning to regulate your emotions and reframing narratives with kids

refinancing the mortgage, consolidating car payments
taking out the trash and setting the coffee
sneaking in late night workouts
planning a trip to the Olympic Trials, learning all the gymnasts’ names (Go Mykayla!), and immediately watching replays in the hotel room
organizing a trip to visit friends in Idaho
foregoing a trip to visit friends so I could fly last minute to my grandmama’s funeral

encouraging me in AA
hiding the BMI scale
reaching out to your people
sharing my blog posts
building me a new website (coming soon!)
re-engaging after tough interactions

stacks of crustless peanut butter sandwiches
a Pielogy box with my name on it
preschool drop offs with the threenager
quesadillas and gyro meat sizzling on the skillet
shoestring fries and dino nuggets humming in the airfryer
his and hers yodels (IYKYK)
Dada “nuggles”

calling the kids downstairs when I’m trying to finish a workout in peace
scheduling family photoshoots--and enduring them!
binging Dexter and Top Chef and Ted Lasso
cringing with me at Covid misinformation videos
waking up at 3am to watch Simone
printing family calendars for the grandparents
designing the yearly Christmas cards

willingly participating in a child dedication where the five-year-old crawled around on the stage and the three-year-old grabbed my crotch during your heartfelt prayer
giving grace when I’m angry, critical, self-righteous

saying I’m sorry 
saying I love you to the toddler who screams and stomps at your mere presence
saying nothing and everything with your hand on my shoulder
saying great! to my decision not to cover up my gray hairs
saying I’ll pick up Aidan, I’ll run to the store, I’ll give you some quiet

***

Love even looks like saying *Maybe* when I want to know if I’m fat, failing, defective.

Love looks like refusing to feed my OCD cycle with reassurance. When asked if I look fat, I want you—no, need you–to answer Maybe. 

And though you are an Enneagram 9, a peacemaker, a non-rocker-of-boats and follower of Unspoken Rules of Men Everywhere, you do say Maybe, and we move forward together.

***

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Love Looks Like”.

Maybe is my way forward

I am a bad friend because I didn’t text her back.

I am a bad wife because I didn’t read his mind.

I am a bad mom because I didn’t keep my cool.

           Maybe.

I am irresponsible because I went to the pool instead of answering that email.

I am irresponsible because I fell asleep without brushing my teeth.

I am irresponsible because I did not wake up with my alarm.

           Maybe.

I’m the worst friend that ever existed.

I ruined her day, her weekend, her life.

I am the worst teacher that ever existed because I did not grade 

their assignment the moment they turned it in.

I let my students down.

I ruined their semester, their careers, their lives.

           Maybe.

I mismanaged my time.

I didn’t maximize, prioritize, optimize.

I am squandering my life.

           Maybe.

I have failed.

I am failing.

I will fail.

           Maybe.

I will feel disorganized and defeated no matter how much I prepare.

Every choice I make is wrong.

           Maybe.

I am not living my values.

I will always feel stuck.

I am failing at recovery.

I am not the perfect parent, the perfect teacher, the perfect person.

I am messing it up.

I am messing them up.

           Maybe.

I can’t concentrate.

I am performing a compulsion.

I am compulsing about compulsions.

           Maybe.

I am the only OCD patient to ever fail the program.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

           Maybe.

I am failing.

I am failing.

I am failing.

I am failing.

           Maybe.

Captive

I cup my hands as water sloshes. Hold it there, steady, steady. Not a drop wasted, squandered, lost. 

Take every thought captive, the Bible says. Make it obedient to Christ.

What if your thoughts are a flood, a torrent, a deluge? What if capturing thoughts is like trying to hold a gallon of water between leaky palms?

“Here, hold this,” I thought God said. “Here are your thoughts: keep them, cherish them, do not waste them, purify, and sanctify them. Hold this for me, I’ll be back in a minute.”

I took Him literally. Scared to waste, to drop, to move, to fail. Account for every droplet. Every minute. Every action until they submit to obedience.

I press my fingers together, but the tighter I grip, the faster the water spills out. Plip plop, plip plop. Failure drips through my fingers, cramped and frozen.

I can’t find the leak. 

No, I am the leak.

I press harder and harder, but the dripping speeds.

Until a therapist asks a question. What if it’s not God? What if it’s an Obsession? A Compulsion? Disorder? What if you stopped trying to hold it all? What if I taught you how?

Could I do that? Just. Let go?

I am learning. Re-wiring. Releasing my hands.

I am not holding the water. I let it hold me. I am floating on my back. Sun kissing freckles on my face. Cool water lapping at my ears. I glide my fingers across the water’s surface, imagine the ripples bubbling out of my wake.