I was vacuuming under my couches the other day, marveling out how quickly cat hair and dust accumulate, and it got me thinking.
When did little accomplishments like conquering dust bunnies stop being enough?
I used to feel so fulfilled as a *cringe* housewife. Yes, it’s true, that’s what I was. A housewife. And I was a happy housewife, at that. Not that I ever would have let anyone call me that.
What was it that made me feel like I needed to be doing something more, something intellectual, in order to take pride in what I was doing with my life? Why did I take so much offense when people commented that I was “just” a mom, and rush to list my many academic accomplishments?
I graduated magna cum laude , people. I was a research assistant that took part in important studies that were published in fancy schmancy journals. I am not just a mommy. This is me flexing my brain at you, and you, and you over there, too, just in case you missed it.
And yet. Those were the happiest years of my life, back before I somehow decided that it wasn’t enough. That my life needed something more in order to be worthy of my pride.
But did it, really? Shouldn’t enjoying the happiness in life, however it presents itself, be enough?
How funny that it took a vacuum, and not a college degree, to teach me to embrace my own little version of happiness.
3 replies on “Enough”
You know, the dust bunnies are enough for me. I sometimes feel like maybe I’m lacking … something… because I don’t long for more. And I wonder if there will come a time when I want something more, too. But for now, I’m pretty happy, too.
Hmm. I have a BA that I could being doing more with. I do some, sure, but less than what I *could* do.
I’m part-time, freelance, on contract, by choice–and spend a lot of time just chilling and working on keeping up the house. I’m pretty happy being mellow, even if it’s not super impressive. *shrug*
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