(Illustration by Stripes Japan)
I’ve always dabbled in self-destructive habits. Teeth grinding, overeating, nail biting, staying up too late, procrastinating. These vices are my dysfunctional coping strategies for dealing with excess stress, emotions, anxiety and the blues.
When our three children were young and we were in that busy stage of military life that seems like a runaway train trip — deployments, teacher conferences, carpools, grocery shopping, bills, in-laws, soccer practices, clogged toilets — there was no time to reflect. Things simply had to get done.
Eating straight out of a carton of ice cream, having too many glasses of wine on a Friday night, sobbing after watching a touching commercial, wearing pajamas all day and serving Froot Loops for dinner were effective coping strategies for dealing with heightened stress levels.
Despite the chaos, those were some of the happiest years of my life as a military spouse and mother. How could that be if I was under so much stress?
Now, my husband has retired from the Navy and has a steady corporate job. Our nest is empty. I finally have a career. We never have to move again. That runaway train dropped us off in a small New England town where life is peaceful and predictable.
Then why is it that I still fall prey to teeth grinding, procrastination and staying up until ungodly hours of the night, playing Spider Solitaire games on my phone and binge-watching true crime documentaries while eating sleeves of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies?
The answer came to me during a trip to the hair salon this week.
“So how’re the kids?” my hairdresser asked, as always. I told her about our son, Hayden, being praised recently at his software engineering job. I told her about our middle child, Anna, getting a huge break in her fashion design career last week.
“And I have great news about Lilly,” I beamed. “She passed her final nursing school exam and is getting pinned on Friday!”
Hairdressers are experts at faking interest in their clients’ chatter, but Kristy has known me since Navy orders brought us to Rhode Island 13 years ago. She’d heard all my stories. She knew when my kids graduated high school. She knew that Lilly, our youngest, fell apart during her freshman year in college. She knew about Lilly’s major depression and panic disorder diagnoses, and the months of treatment that followed.
She knew that during that time, I was a complete wreck.
Kristy learned that in the midst of Lilly’s struggle, she’d decided to become a nurse. I’d told her that Lilly was a natural empath, for whom nursing was a perfect career. She’d heard the story of Lilly at age 5 overhearing an argument between her parents, then climbing into her father’s lap to lighten his mood. “Your breath doesn’t stink today, Daddy,” she’d offered with a smile.
Kristy knew that Lilly battled and beat her depression during nursing school, and passed demanding classes while working full time in the hospital ER. She knew that Lilly had found her passion.
Kristy stopped folding foils and grinned. “That’s the best news ever!” she said, and she meant it. She told me good news about her three adult kids too, whom I knew from our years of salon chair chit chat. Our smiles and laughter were heartfelt.
On my way to my car I felt light, buoyant, happy. It hit me. For moms like me and Kristy, happiness is dependent on our children’s well-being. Twenty years ago was a happy time for me even though life was chaotic, because my kids were content, well-adjusted and thriving.
And today, with a less chaotic empty nest, my mood still hinges on my adult children’s satisfaction with their lives.
Some might call my happiness dependency dysfunctional, but I believe that mothers are only as happy as their least happy child, regardless of their age. When one becomes a mother, nurturing, protectiveness and the instinct to raise up a healthy, happy human become deeply engrained.
This week, I didn’t overeat, procrastinate, bite my nails, grind my teeth or stay up too late. My three adult children are happy, so all is right in my world.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
