It’s been a long time coming, but I’m giving myself permission to cut a few corners. Writing myself a parent note, if you will.
I give myself permission to count V-8 as a vegetable and Larabars as fruit, and to eat ice cream for dinner some days.
I excuse myself from the stuff that’s been in the mending basket for a year or more. If we haven’t needed it in a year, is it worth my time to fix it?
I give myself permission to let the kids be bored sometimes. And to shirk my responsibilities other times and goof off with them.
I excuse myself from feeling guilty for throwing away cardboard instead of recycling it. I am trying to recycle more, but I’d rather throw the boxes away than deal with a to-recycle pile taller than I am.
I give myself permission to put my career on hold to take care of my kids. I’m going to have to work for 30 more years anyway; what’s wrong with putting things into neutral for 10.
I excuse myself from properly cleaning the house all the time. If wiping the bathroom floor in between the bath mats with a disinfecting wipe means the floor gets cleaned this week, that’s good enough.
I give myself permission to ply the children with snacks and drinks and TV on occasion so I can take care of myself.
I excuse myself from worrying about things like bad hair days, leg stubble, stained/wrinkled clothes, and chipped nail polish. The people who would judge me for things like that are people whose opinions I don’t care about anyway.
I give myself permission to fail. And, having failed, I give myself permission to mourn my failure before trying again.
I give myself permission to try again.