Why do we worry? More importantly, why do I worry? It is something that has plagued my life, I worry, but I carry on with a smile on my face and a can do attitude. It doesn’t mean I don’t lie awake freting about why the man down the road looked at me funny, or whether my front door is locked, or if the gas is off on the cooker, or recently, is my baby breathing!
I don’t own any Mummy friends and I make every effort to go to groups. I go daily, but there are a couple that I struggle with. These Mummys seem so together, they seem to know what they are doing, I sit and listen to them and wonder how the hell do they do it. They have something I don’t, 2 year olds! This particular group of ladies, all have 2 children and they are all a similar age, the topic of conversation is no longer the babies, its the 2 year olds. I often feel left out, I worry I won’t ever get there, I worry I’m not good enough to be in this circle.
Yesterday the subject of blogs came up, in my head I thought hark me with my blog, then they all slated it, they’d indeed thought about doing it, but never found the time, never found the inclination, they talked in wonder, but they said it wasn’t for them. I stayed quiet. I filled myself with doubt, I know why I’m blogging, I wrote a post about it! But since this conversation I have been filled with worry. How am I finding time to do this when these Mums can’t, will I be neglecting my child if I spend time writing, what if no one ever finds me interesting enough to follow me. Will I explode in a fire ball explosion because I left the gas on. Will the man down the road come in my house as I’ve left the door unlocked to see how much disarray my house is in!
Mental slap! I’m un-spiralling my negative thoughts as I type, it’s rather therapeutic, banging inanely on the keyboard, how I’m staying semi cohesive I don’t know. I by no means am a perfect writer, I need practice, this is what I am doing, I need to plough and break through these thoughts. I may not be a super blogger, I may not write well, but if I don’t try I’ll never get better. As I look over at my little Robot, he smiles at me and jumps excitably, he’s covered in weetabix, but he’s happy, I’m a good Mother, he makes me happy, we make each other happy. I don’t need to worry! I’ll try not to! Now I have to work out is that a scab or a piece of weetabix…
How do you get over the feeling of doubt? Why does weetabix get every where? How do you cope?