“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
– Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night
I used to think that I was a…not so enthusiastic person. The anti Manic Pixie Dream Girl, if you will.
And I wasn’t entirely wrong. However, I’m not Marvin the Paranoid Android, either.
Though I’ve spent a lot of my life believing otherwise. No, I’m kind of in between, really.
But I am far more enthusiastic and peppy since having children. Because of them, and at times in spite of them. It seems like a put-on to some, I’m sure. But unlike the forced optimism I put forth when my endo was at its worst, this is real.
In general, I try very hard to always have something to anticipate. An outing, a project, even just a new dish for dinner. I want to teach my kids to look forward to the future. And I want to continue to feed their sense of wonder.
Granted, I do not always feel the enthusiasm I project. I’m over 40, I work two jobs, and pep has never been my strong suit. But wonder is in my wheelhouse. So I try. And usually, even if I do not start out feeling excited, by the time I’m done talking things up I’m just as pumped as they are.
Where things fall apart is when the kids are…well, kids. Because I play the fun card too frequently sometimes, I guess. It loses its novelty. Outings and projects and surprises become par for the course, and the reaction I get is less
and I get all
Then I get over it and start planning the next thing, because I am apparently a closet optimist.
And because sometimes, things just…work out.
So I will continue, until they are embarrassed to be seen in public with me. And then a little bit beyond that. That’s just the kind of mom I am.