The Cure for the Overwhelmed

I’ve never felt so lost and overwhelmed. My husband knew it as he sat down in front of me with a sharpie and a blank sheet of computer paper. "Look, let me help you out," as he scribbled in his usual manner of barely comprehensible penmanship. When he turned the page around and slid it over to me, it was a brief list. At the top - "Amanda's Priorities".

It read:

Feed Amanda

Feed Luke

Luke sleep

Luke bathed

Amanda sleep

Amanda showered

House/Work/Etc.

Luke was born just two weeks earlier. Our first child. And of all the warnings and cautionary tales I heard throughout my pregnancy, none of them were, “If for the first few weeks you feel like you’re losing your mind, having heart palpitations, and paddling with all your might just to keep your nose above the waves of emotions and surges of anxiety, this is normal. And it will pass.”

I looked around me at a million things I still wanted to get done - clean the house, get back to work, cook more meals, take the baby to relatives' houses - and I couldn’t get to any of them. Not to mention I had no clue how I was going to make sure this fragile little life I was now responsible for survived infancy.

Here I was with fifteen staples across my gut, nursing a baby what felt like every second, and collapsing under the anxiety that all the rest of our life was going to fall to pieces while I recovered from a c-section and nursed my sweet boy. We would lose ground in relationships we'd been investing in, ministries we were a part of, and events we should have been more involved in.

"But how do I know I'm successful, Webb?" I was looking for something, anything, to show me that it was going to be ok, I wasn’t failing, and I was doing exactly what I should be doing.

"You're successful,” he responded compassionately, “when you and the baby are fed and mostly clothed. This is called 'survival mode'."

My husband has the privilege to serve as an Associate Pastor and Worship Leader at our wonderful church and I am blessed to work at his side as our church administrator.  Luke comes to our office with me every day. It's a dream situation.

But then there are days when the perfect storm brews and our office is enveloped in chaos. Luke’s having an off day and does more screaming than sleeping; I'm under the pressure of a deadline that requires both my hands to work on it; Webb’s trying to listen to and counsel students in an office with a colicky baby and an overwhelmed wife; And all the while I'm dreading going home because I'll have to face the wreckage that is our house for a few hours before coming back for a church service that I know my son is not going to tolerate well. Oh, and everything, I do mean everything, is covered in spit up. Baby reflux isn't a joke.

In the middle of it, there is nothing else - the chaos seems indefinite. And I find myself living just like I did those first two weeks of Luke's life: no food, no water, no idea if my outfit matches (and pretty sure it has dried spit up on it), looking around wondering how moms of two and three and four kids make it look so easy and effortless and I’m feeling like a failure.

This is where the temptation beckons:  I want to look effortless. I want perfection. I want to do it all. I want to be Superwoman and get it all done while having enviable hair and great shoes. And the wave of “overwhelmed” starts to gather strength while I strive for perfection. The undercurrent of anxiety pulls at my ankles. 

I'm trying to choose to live real. Rather than perpetuate an unrealistic image, I’m letting others see the tears, the messy vehicle, and the kid still wearing his pj's at noon because khakis at seven this morning wasn't working out. I’m letting go of my idol of perfectionism and when I do, the plague of anxiety wanes.

I’m learning that my key to [trying to be] a balanced wife, mommy, and minister - the cure for my “overwhelmed” - is humility. Pride demands I am Superwoman. Pride means I show up for every meeting and service, perfectly dressed with a perfectly dressed son. Pride says my house is perfectly in order. Pride whispers, "You must have it all and do it all. If you can't, what kind of woman are you?"

But humility, oh the sweet freedom of humility, reminds me that often what is best for my family is what is unseen by others. And when I'm humble enough to do what is best, without concern for other's thoughts of me, without the need to impress them with all I can do with a kid on my hip, my family is happier. I am healthier. We're all whole.

Humility means I can choose "best" over "most". Quality over quantity. It gives me the gift of sanity. Humility restores order to my life, to our home.

Humility cures me. It frees me to ask for help, it shows me what to let go, it makes me ok with my limits, and it helps me drop unrealistic expectations of myself.

Last Sunday morning as we rushed around the house trying to make sure we were out the door by 7:45, baby in tow and diaper bag packed for twelve hours, I was showered and ready when I went to get Luke out of his bouncy seat and dress him for church. I had the cutest little outfit set out - khakis and a plaid shirt. But when I laid eyes on him, my heart swelled with peace. He was sleeping soundly with a little smile on his face. I knew his restfulness would give way to crankiness should I wrangle him into his Sunday best.

Humility took over. I picked him up and slowed the morning routine down. I held him close, pressed his warm cheek to mine, and swayed in the silence. And then I gently kissed his forehead, tucked him into his car seat, still in his warm, little sleeper with the smiling bear on the tummy. I put his outfit in the diaper bag for “later”. And we went to church.