One day from now, I'll be in Jamaica.
I'll be in Jamaica with Virgie Tovar and a bunch of babes being babely at #BabecampJamaica.
In Jamaica.
The last time I left the country, I was 17. I can count the number of times I've flown in the last 20 years on two hands — and that includes flying back and forth to New York twice in two weeks.
I can count the number of days I've been away from my children (the small ones, anyway) on those same two hands.
There are eight swimsuits in my suitcase. I packed nothing but sundresses and flip flops. I rented a car. I’m checked into my flight. I have my boarding passes. I’m ready to go.
And I'm feeling fucking guilty.
I decided to take a train to LAX (about 3.5 hours from me) because I didn't want to drive in LA. Also because I can work on the train. Somehow being able to work, creating space and time to work, makes me feel less guilty. Ravishly is just another one of my babies.
I get back the night of my husband's birthday. By the time I see him, it won't be his birthday anymore.
I feel guilty about that, too.
My 16-year-old has his final band competition this weekend. His last opportunity to garner a first place trophy, the day he will either end the season on the very top or be really bummed out. I’m missing it.
You guessed it: guilty.
Everyone keeps asking me if I'm excited. I just tell them I feel guilty. They want to know why I feel guilty.
I want to know why, too.
I suspect it has something to do with a culture that prizes suffering — because suffering means you're working hard, and working harder than everyone else is an achievement? I suspect it has something to do with feeling inadequate as a mother — because don't most mothers feel inadequate?
I wonder how many of the mothers are telling me to relax and have a good time would be able to do the same.
Yesterday I was in the school office with Ella. It was Halloween, and a Perfect Mother strode in with a box of cupcakes in hand. But not just cupcakes: intricately decorated witch cupcakes, piled with frosting, topped with a black sugar cone for a hat. A Pinterest success.
The school principal and I looked at the cupcakes and jointly lamented our inability to be better than just adequate parents. If you can’t Pinterest some cupcakes, what are you doing with your spare time? Oh, what’s that? You don’t have spare time? MAKE SOME. SLEEP LESS. And skip lunch, you don’t need food. Every woman who picked up a cupcake called themselves “bad.”
Even cupcakes make us feel guilty — in a multitude of ways.
When I started my BB&A journey 20 weeks ago, self-care was at the heart of it. I had forgotten to honor my own needs. I had forgotten I had needs at all. This was all in an effort to return to myself, so that I can return love to others. Twenty-one years of mothering, five incredible kids, and one mother beaten down, exhausted, neglected — not by the world, but by herself.
I preach self-care, and I mean it. I am convicted in my belief in its value. But I am not always good at practicing it. I often am really bad at practicing it. This entire trip, Babecamp, Virgie — they are all borne in self-love and self-care.
I wish that I was anticipating this trip like I know I should be, like I know the other ten women are.
I hope that this feeling of guilt will dissipate when I’m on the beach — I fear that it won’t. And I feel guilty about that too. Who goes to Jamaica and complains about going to Jamaica?
An ungrateful person? A narcissistic person? A guilty person?
I’m going to write about it every day, and as always, I’m going to be honest.
