As the summer approached before my youngest child was set to begin preschool, I found myself daydreaming about the newfound free time that awaited me. Each time I passed an antique store, I envisioned leisurely afternoons, sprawled out in the steam room at the gym. “I’m beginning to prune,” I would joke with fellow mothers in the steam room on those quiet Thursday mornings. “Looks like it’s time to step out and catch that movie.”
My plans included diving into the Lost Generation section at the library and, fueled by inspiration, finally writing that novel in one of the charming local cafés without drive-thrus. I imagined perfectly arranged flower boxes and festive holiday decorations gracing my windows. I pictured peaceful car rides, blasting classic gangster rap, with no squabbles erupting from the backseat as I drove around town.
Every time I encountered an activity I couldn’t undertake with my children, I tucked it away in my growing collection of Aspirational Plans. With two hours and twenty minutes of solitude, twice a week, it felt like my dreams were on the verge of coming to fruition. I’ve always believed in the importance of personal time to rejuvenate—filling my own cup so I could pour into my children’s lives. After two long years, my cup felt nearly empty.
The first week, however, required some practical matters: a long-overdue doctor’s appointment. The next day, new brakes for the car. No problem, I reassured myself—my Aspirational Plans could certainly wait; I had a whole year ahead of me.
The following week brought my middle child’s birthday, demanding my attention for gifts, cake, decorations, and a piñata. By the time I picked up my daughter on the second day, I was drenched in a panicked sweat, still yet to indulge in a single enjoyable experience for myself. But I reminded myself, I had an entire year of free mornings ahead.
Yet the week after, my eldest caught some trendy virus, and frustration mounted. “What do you mean I can’t drop her off if she’s throwing up?” I exclaimed, dragging my pale child back to the car. “You said the other kids already have it! Just give her a trash can and put her in the corner. I want to go to the steam room!”
Before long, one commitment led to another. “Sure, I can help collate the buzz books next week,” I told my middle daughter’s teacher without thinking. “Of course, I can assist with the book fair setup,” I added to my eldest’s room parent the next day.
“Wait, you need how much homemade purple Play-Doh by tomorrow?” I asked incredulously. “Sure, I can fit a teeth cleaning into Friday.” I was determined to find size 4 Capezio tights somewhere in the city, even if it required multiple stops.
“Blueberry muffins will be fine for Grandparents’ Day tomorrow!” I called out. “Congratulations on your new baby! I’ll drop off my famous veggie lasagna on Thursday morning!” And of course, I could host a bridal shower that same weekend.
In no time, it was December, and the holiday season loomed—forget about focusing on myself with stockings demanding attention. May the gods of Pinterest have mercy if those Christmas Eve pajamas didn’t match perfectly. Presents needed to be purchased, morning programs attended, and just like that, every spare moment vanished.
Ever the optimist, I believed the new year would finally usher in my Aspirational Plans. With four hours of peace and quiet each week on the horizon, I vowed to protect those mornings from any errand or chore that could encroach on my precious time.
However, reality hit in February when I found myself running between three Office Depots in search of Canon #124 ink. With spring break approaching, my novel remained a series of scribbled thoughts in a worn spiral notebook. I couldn’t even recall if our gym still had a steam room. My Christmas wreath still adorned the front door, albeit with cobwebs, and the antique shop I wanted to visit was going out of business.
Just as I had underestimated the time and energy required to care for newborns, I was again misjudging the demands of managing a household. Why did the school need so many cookies? Why were we always out of stamps? Couldn’t I just take care of this mole myself?
Despite my resistance, the boundary between my life and my children’s had become increasingly blurred. Now in our third year of preschool, my Aspirational Plans had materialized only a handful of times: a brief walk here, a breakfast with a friend there. Occasionally, I could come up for a quick breath of air.
And as I remind myself that kindergarten is just two years away, I cling to the hope of finally having all the time in the world. Just don’t tell me otherwise.
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In summary, navigating motherhood often means sacrificing personal aspirations. As time slips away, the dreams of self-care can feel distant, yet the hope for future freedom remains.
Keyphrase: Mom Aspirations
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