Organized isn’t exactly a word ever used to describe me. I am a procrastinator, which I like to portray positively by saying I work well on deadline. I like finding creative solutions. I roll with the punches and am calm in crisis situations. I prioritize tasks almost to a fault, putting things in a bit too large of a perspective at times. These are all things I thought would help me when I became a mother.
And it did — at first.
A crying newborn didn’t upset me. His first fever didn’t send me into a full-blown panic. As he got older, I thought nothing of dropping everything to be silly and have a toddler dance party (which, to be honest, is basically just jumping up and down repeatedly while putting your hands in the air. But then again, that basically was our Saturday nights out at packed bars in college.) Those crazy daycare requests that you have 24 hours to fulfill — 75 holiday cards for parents to give to teachers, snow pants, very specific types of sunscreen? No sweat. Finding obscure items on short notice isn’t an issue — it’s how I live my everyday. I didn’t mind my son wanting to leave the apartment in a Mickey Mouse shirt and Paw Patrol pants. With my sense of perspective, it didn’t matter because he was happy, he had a roof over his head, food on his plate, and parents who loved him.
Finally! Traits that were once labeled liabilities were now points of strength in motherhood.
Then I became pregnant with my second child. Seven months in, I found out that my husband would have to have surgery, and that surgery would have to be done within days of my due date. No ifs, ands, or buts. It simply couldn’t be done sooner — there was a certain schedule of tests and appointments that had to happen prior to the surgery. It couldn’t be pushed back a few months.
We. Were. Screwed.
The night after I found out, I couldn’t sleep. I gave up around 2 a.m. and took myself to the living room couch to cry, cry, and cry some more. First off, I was scared for my husband’s health. Second, I was honestly overwhelmed. How would I possibly handle this all? Taking care of a newborn didn’t scare me — there’s not much you can do besides rock, feed, and change diapers. My sense of perspective helps me out with newborns. But taking care of a newborn, a toddler, and an ill husband? My perspective couldn’t help me out with that scenario.
While flying by the seat of my pants was my default for dealing with motherhood, I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t going to fit this particular challenge. Then the following phrase came to mind: Control what you can control. I have no idea where and when I heard it, but it started to make perfect sense.
First, I had to acknowledge what I had no control over — a soon-to-be newborn and my husband’s surgery. Then I had to figure out what I did have control over — my toddler’s schedule, the household, my jobs, and my reaction to it all.
With that clearly defined, I started to work on systems that would help me in the coming months. Being more deliberate with my son’s bedtimes. Making his daycare lunch in advance. Making sure he had the clothes he would need in advance of the next growth spurt. Showing him how much I love and appreciate him as much as I can now before things get hectic. I even ordered his Halloween gear in August.
Also, I had to realize that I most likely was not going to be “on call” for my full-time job like I had been through most of my first maternity leave. (No writing those mass emails to freshman from the hospital room while recovering from a C-section this time around.) I needed to tie up loose ends early and find people to fill in for even the smallest things. I had to be honest with colleagues, saying things like, “I’m not going to be able to look after X while I’m out, so what could I do now to either take care of it or find someone who can look after it for me?” And I started actually using that fancy planner I bought last December. (Which means, of course, it’s almost through and I have to buy another one…)
Being more deliberate did not mean I turned into a highly organized Pinterest mom or a control freak. After 36 years of being the wacky, creative type who can remember a 1994 NFL quarterback’s rating but not the passcode to check my son out from daycare, I don’t think I’ll ever completely change. But I’m learning that if I control what I can control, the space for me to roll with the punches will more likely be there.
