Falling short

Surely it must be a flaw in my soul, this prideful idea that I am meant to be something special.  But no, that sounds wrong.  Everyone is destined to be something special.  What beloved child is not something wonderful, amazing, and special in his or her own way?  I guess my problem is that I let myself compare my special with the special of others and pretty much always find myself not special enough.  I look around at the blessed life I lead, a life filled with remarkable friends, healthy family, abundant food and more than adequate clothing and shelter, and I think, "And this is it?  This is all I'm meant to be?"  Where does the notion come from that I should be always more and more and more?  When, at the end of every day I feel like I've completely used up all of my available resources, why do I still feel like I'm not doing anything?

It could be, of course, that I spend hours every day on stuff no one else respects or even notices, stuff that is undone as soon as I do it.  But let's leave that bit of bitterness alone for today.  Let's just say my house is never in order.

I have a friend, not a close one, but a friendly acquaintance from 20 years ago and still today, who last year didn't qualify for Boston.  She considers me the runner.  This year, she beat her BQ time by over ten minutes and got in.  This year, I am running short and slow.  I didn't get into Boston.  It's not like the Olympic trials or anything.  It's a silly marathon run at an inconvenient time of year that most of my running friends have already done.  Even so, I haven't made it there.  And really, I don't see why I care other than it seems to mark me as not-all-that-good at running.

I am barely adequate when it comes to music as well.  I am the weak link in my section.  Even after practicing the Barnes piece almost every day, I still couldn't keep up at rehearsal last night.  I didn't major in music.  I put my horn away for a decade.  I don't practice enough.  I'm pulling us all down.

Mostly, I suppose, I get down because I used to feel like my mind was something special.  I used to think I must be destined to do something interesting.  I have always always wanted to be a writer.  For a while I wanted to be a scientist.  For a few years I was a decent teacher.  And now.... Well, it turns out I don't have anything to say, I don't have any special knowledge to contribute, and I quit teaching.

Yes, go ahead and say that I am doing the most important and valuable job in the world.  Yes, I've heard that, and I don't necessarily have an argument against it.  A good mother is invaulable.  But let's be honest here, I'm not all that spectacular as a mother.  I'm sitting here bemoaning my uselessness while my daughter is watching Robinhood.  I don't do interesting crafts or field trips.  Most days, even the ones where one kid is at school all day and the other goes to preschool and nap, by the end of the day I can't even listen to them anymore.  I am impatient and uncreative and weary when it comes to parenting.  I do make really good food for my family, but they would rather have hot dogs or grilled cheese anyway.

My life is beautiful and perfect, and many days it feels like I'm trapped in a hole anyway.  A lovely hole, but one where I'll never accomplish anything of much worth, where I'm missing out on the bigger world I was meant to inhabit.  Some day they'll throw the dirt in over me, the grass will sprout, and I will have disappeared without having done anything worth remembering.

[P.S.  Mother Theresa smiles at me with pity and says, "We can do no great things, only small things with great love."  Another load of laundry, take Gretchen to soccer class, drive to the bread store for wheat-free bread.]