Have you ever noticed how many people are pushing balance?  Balance your diet, your budget, your work versus your life, your alone time versus time with your kids, your schedule so you can exercise, shop smart, keep the romance in your marriage, keep your home clean, your life on track, your sanity.  We are told that the key to achieving all these things-- at the same time, no less-- is supposed to be balance.   So, at the risk of airing my dirty laundry (I wouldn't have any if I had found this elusive balance), what exactly is balance, and how am I supposed to find it?   I have spent my life, and the last four years I've been a mother in particular, searching for (but more often lamenting my lack of ability to find) balance. 

I failed. Over and over and over again.  I started to prickle every time I even heard the word.   And then, I decided to reject it.

I have determined I don't believe in balance.   I said this recently to Daniel, just venting, not expecting a debate.  He asked me to explain.    Here's the thing: If I am one place, I am not another.  And I mean that physically, mentally, and any other way you'd like to approach it.  There is no getting around it.  If I am at work, I am not with my kids.  If I am with my kids, I am not at work, and therefore, not making money. If I nurture my marriage the way it needs, I am sacrificing some time with my children. If I spend all my time with my kids, I am neglecting myself and my marriage. I can't work AND be home AND spend quality, creative time with my kids AND make everything from scratch AND spend the time it takes to shop thoughtfully, healthfully and sustainably AND keep my house clean and organized AND be a meaningful member of my church AND tend to friendships, family members and ministries AND nurture my marriage AND write and exercise and read and do the things I need to keep myself healthy.  I CAN'T*.

The * is the key here. * = Not all at the same time.   

So what does this mean?  Logistically, probably nothing different.  But mentally, it's huge.  It means acknowledging choices-- owning them-- and then not feeling guilty about the repercussions.  It means I can't always make it to my small group, because doing so when my husband is away means sacrificing that time with my children when I've already been at the office all day, foregoing their peaceful bedtime and full night's sleep, and giving up any hope of a few quiet moments to myself. But I am choosing to be okay with that.  

It means going on dates and overnights with my husband, even though it results in additional precious moments spent away from my children. Because I believe the overall benefit is greater than the in-the-moment sacrifice.  It means working toward a plan to work differently, to work less, even though it means acknowledging that I might not have a future in this career field.  It might not be waiting for me when I come back. 
But I am choosing to be okay with that.  

It means reallocating our budget to dedicate more resources to food and a lifestyle that will keep our family healthy.  It means abandoning coupons and not always being able to be frugal. 
And I am choosing to be okay with that.  

Really, it means making a choice, this thing over that at this time.   

Daniel listened, head cocked to the side, and said, "I see what you're saying, but I disagree.  I look at life over a week, or a month, or a year and determine whether it was balanced."  That may work for him, but I can't figure out how to implement that in the middle of my days.  Ironically, I don't have the time.    Instead, I will continue to see it all as making choices.  Sometimes I will get it wrong, but I will try to be more forgiving when I do.  I will try to take the advice I gave Mirabella the other day, when her disobedience had an unintended consequence.  I told her, "We all make mistakes.  And when we do, we say we're sorry, we try to see what we can learn for next time, and then we move on."

“I totally think you should do that,” Stephanie said, gesturing out the window.  We were having brunch at Teavolve in Fells Point to celebrate her new baby.  I looked at the sign, “Test It. Blog It. Win It,” it said, and bore the Su Casa logo. She explained it was a promotion Su Casa, purveyor of stylish (and gorgeous) furniture, was running in which bloggers could test a piece of furniture and write about it in the hopes of winning it.  As soon as I got home, I applied. 

I had been trolling online retailers and resellers for a new desk.  My baby business, Bendetto Creative, will soon be making a couple big purchases, namely a new computer and a new desk.  The one we have now is sturdy and in great shape (and available for sale, should you be interested; I’ll give you a bargain).  But it’s also enormous and just doesn’t work for not-so-enormous me.

Imagine my excitement when I learned one of my other babies, Smarter Ardor, had been chosen to participate!  So, today we got to go shopping in a beautiful store I have visited many times, but from which I have never bought anything.  We are only just deciding what we like, but we know it’s not the black Ikea furniture we purchased when we started out.  We are making efforts to seek out quality pieces now, one by one, as we need additional furniture.  We acquired a lovely distressed grey antique buffet late last year that is my current favorite piece of furniture. That is, at least until the desk arrives from Su Casa next week.

We arrived at Su Casa on Bond Street in Fells Point, kids in tow,
pre-lunch and post-church this afternoon.  We were fully aware that this experience, with a two and a four-year-old, may not be fun. Even we questioned the timing of this outing.  However, we were comforted when we saw the kids’ section—a carpeted area in the corner of the store with plenty of soft toys at eye level.  The girls squealed with delight and ran to play. Other families with small children came in, and salespeople graciously mentioned the side entrance that features a ramp for easier stroller access. Seeing this welcoming attitude, I relaxed a bit.

Several salespeople greeted us, but in such a laidback manner that I wasn’t even sure they were salespeople. Daniel and I have different preferences when it comes to shopping experiences.  I don’t really like to be bothered until and unless I know what I want.  He prefers the VIP treatment.  I’ll fast-forward a bit for you and tell you we both walked away impressed today.

I had been instructed to behave like a “normal” shopper; not to give myself away.  Normal for me is wandering around like I am lost, then whipping around frequently to ensure my children have not broken anything or gone missing.  So that’s what I did.  I couldn’t find any desks, so I sought out Jhonelle Clarke, the salesperson who had approached me initially.  She showed me to a compact console table-type desk.  It was really cute and exactly the type of thing I might have liked prior to starting Bendetto. But now, visions of double monitors and drafts with redlines scattered about crowded the surface of that cute little desk in my mind.  So that one was out, and I tried to explain this to Jhonelle.

“How do you feel about glass tops?”  She asked.  I said I did not prefer them, because, though they look lovely in the store, I figure they would soon be covered with smudged fingerprints in a variety of sizes.  I said this, but then I sat down in front of the Vera desk.  It was a nice depth (25”)-- not as petite as the console, but not as unmanageable as our current desk.  It featured a pull out drawer with room for a keyboard and mouse and divided sections for essentials. At my current desk, there is no way for me to sit in an ergonomically correct fashion, because the desk is higher than my chair will adjust to, and the mouse is too far away.  Not only would this desk solve that problem; moving the keyboard to the shelf below would also enable me to keep whatever papers I needed close at hand as well.  Daniel and I talked all of this over while Jhonelle dutifully scoured catalogs for additional desk models.  She found another, a wood-topped desk in a gorgeous ash finish we both loved.  But I had just sold myself on the practicality of the pull out drawer, which this other desk didn’t feature.  Plus, the second desk she found was about double the price of the one I was sitting at.  And while this is not exactly real life, and we are now all about embracing quality pieces, it would be silly to pretend that cost is not a factor.

We discussed all of this while Jhonelle quietly wrote up my papers, bringing them to me nonchalantly.  There was absolutely no pressure at all, which was delightful and not what I had been expecting, quite honestly.  When I started thinking about a chair to accompany the desk, and set my sights on the Valencia chair  (in a beautiful robin’s egg blue leather), Derek carried it from across the store for me so I could compare two (almost imperceptibly) different styles side by side.  Then he didn’t make me feel bad when I decided it would just be the desk today, thank you.  (Full disclosure: I have been talking about my love for that chair ever since we left).

When it came time for me to fill out the form for delivery and payment, I presented Jhonelle with my signed Test It. Blog It. Win It. agreement.  She smiled. “Did I fool you?” I asked. She said that I had. We proceeded to schedule the shipment, which can happen next week, since the desk is in stock.

So my Su Casa experience, so far, has been quite positive!  After we left, happy kids still happy (though now sad to leave the “special store”), we ventured down the street to Brick Oven Pizza (BOP) for lunch. 

I now anxiously await the delivery of the desk (which will arrive at the convenient day and time of my choosing), and when I close my eyes I still see that robin’s egg blue chair.  Maybe we’ll be back sooner than planned.

Contrary to the opinion of some of my acquaintances (but probably not the longsuffering people that love me), I am not an over achiever.  In my natural state, I will do what it takes to get by.  I have been fortunate that, in many cases “getting by” has been perceived as exceling.  I don’t know what to credit this to.  The grace of God?  Being in the right place at the right time? Benefitting from low expectations?  In any case, I breezed through high school (with the exception of the math classes—those were a tad less breezy), and when I landed in my small Baptist college, I didn’t know how to work very hard.  And also, I was rather impressed with myself.  At first, no one challenged this.  While walking through the sunny quad en route to my work study, when I would encounter my friend Shade reading his Sports Illustrated on a bench and saying, “C. Don’t go to work,” I would take his advice.  I just wouldn't go.  I would not even think to mention it the next time I graced them with my presence.  See?  I told you.  I was obnoxious.

I can’t remember when I met Dr. Gayle Price, though it was likely at the pinnacle of this arrogance.  I remember this: I did not like her, and she taught me more than anyone has.   She was the one who suggested I consider majoring in English.  She presented me with a defense for not if but when my parents countered with, “but how will you make any money?” and, “oh, so you’re going to teach?”

When I became her work study student, she looked me square in the eye and said, “I rely on you and expect you to be here. If you cannot be here, I expect you to call.”  It’s embarrassing to admit this now, but that was kind of an epiphany for me.  I can’t explain why, but I really didn’t know that.

When I took Advanced Composition, the only class for which she was my professor, she knocked me down.  I remember screeching in, always a couple minutes late, and being subjected to her glare.  She never addressed the fact that I was late.  I almost wished she had.  She assigned a lot of reading and infinitely more writing.  She took her time giving us feedback.  I remember being shocked when I received my first paper back from her.  She had bled all over the margins with her neat cursive.  Her hard copy commentary accompanied a cassette tape of her voice, reading through and providing thoughtful criticism.  I had to listen to it in the car because that’s the only place I had a cassette player. She gave me a lower grade than anyone ever had on a paper.  I was offended.  I was a writer, I thought, or at least I was going to be.  She told me I was lazy.  She told me my talent didn’t matter unless I was willing to do the hard work; she told me talent wasn’t enough.  She pissed me off. I decided she didn’t like me.  I decided I didn’t like her.  And then, finally, I decided maybe she was right.

Dr. Price was fair.  She was generous with her time, her praise, her advice, her intellect—her gifts.  One of her colleagues said of her once that, though she always had so much going on, when you finally sat down with her, she would make you feel like you were the only thing that mattered.  She was fully present.  Now, as a working mother who constantly feels divided no matter where I am, I have reflected on this compliment often.  I can think of no higher praise.

Dr. Price taught me how to be a better editor.  She taught me to help others improve their writing when I worked for her in the Writing Center.  She taught me it’s okay to bring store-brought brownies to a party in a tin to make them seem homemade (she never knew she taught me that one).  She taught me to avoid the comma splice and embrace the semicolon.

She taught me how to write about matters of faith and the heart without being overly sentimental.  She introduced me to one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott.  And years after I had graduated, she wrote me a touching letter of recommendation that helped me get into grad school (and if we had spoken more recently, she would have urged me not to let my growing family and career keep me from finishing that degree).

I didn’t know Dr. Price had become sick until the very end.  I doubt she was well enough to have read my good-bye.  I regret that I did not make an effort to stay in touch.  I doubt she would even have remembered me, the punk from ten years ago, now somewhat reformed.   But I have cried for her and for her grown children over this last week since her passing. And I will always be grateful for all that she taught me, not the least of which was the importance of showing up.