Today is the 4th of July, a day which I almost feel a patriotic obligation to celebrate as I did throughout my white–picket–fence childhood — spending time with family and friends, and eating burgers, watermelon, and patriotic angel food cake topped with whipped cream, strawberries, and blueberries. I have so many wonderful memories of catching fireflies, running with sparklers, watching fireworks, and otherwise enjoying the typical 4th of July, but for various reasons, this is not how I want to spend this 4th of July. Today, I am flying solo. This was a conscious choice that I made. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing, yet I still feel this strong sense that I “should” be celebrating in a more “normal” way.
This is a feeling that I’ve had around many holidays in my adult life, largely because of my decision not to have children, a choice that has always left me feeling a bit abnormal. I am certain that I was not meant to have children. Yet, when I see the neighborhood kids dressed in their red, white, and blue outfits riding bikes with streamers this morning, I stop to wonder whether I have made the right choice. I often ask myself this question when I see children sitting on Santa’s lap, cannonballing into a pool, or cuddling up to their parents in an adorable way. These moments made me think I would, someday, want to become a mom.
When I was facing that decision years ago, my Imperfectly Honest co-host, Sheila, gave me the best piece of advice I’ve received on this topic. Sheila has raised three remarkable children. She views her role as a mother as her greatest joy and accomplishment in life. When I was trying to decide whether to become a mother myself, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Elizabeth, for every little league home run, and proud, walk-across-the-stage-to-get-their-diploma moment, there are thousands of challenging, mundane, and darn right disgusting tasks leading up to each one. I love being a mother, but as I was raising my children, even I often wondered if the juice was worth the squeeze. Being a parent is like completing an Ironman. If you are not going to enjoy the journey and the training like you do with an Ironman, you are not going to enjoy being a parent.”
I’ve completed nearly 100 triathlons, so she knew this example would speak to me. I find gratification by pushing myself to my limits and helping others by sharing what I have learned along the way. I find little gratification in making sure that others are cared for on a daily basis. I don’t enjoy the kind of nurturing that makes great parents. For me, the juice of parenting simply isn’t worth the squeeze.
I think that this principle applies to everything. The cross-the-finish-line glory is only a very small percentage of the journey. Today, on this 4th of July, I’m reminding myself that while I am feeling a little lonely, it is only one day out of 365 in a year. In truth, I am happier at home writing than I would be weathering stressful travel on a holiday weekend. I am grateful that I won’t be collapsing from exhaustion after a full day of watching my children to make sure they don’t drown in the lake.
I am eternally grateful for people like Sheila, my mother, and my brother and sister-in-law — people who were born to be parents and for whom the juice is definitely worth the squeeze. Because of them, I am hopeful for the next generation. I am also confident that being true to myself will help me jump in to take the wheel at times when they are simply too stretched from the duties of parenthood to keep going.
Onward.
