Attempts At Dignity

Dignity is defined as the quality of being worthy of esteem or respect. It is what most of us strive for as we start our day - and it is what some of us try to salvage at the end of it. As a mother, each of my subsequent children have slowly stripped away a little of my self-respect and pride. I shop at the grocery story with food stains on my shirt, I refer to myself in the third person - even when I am alone. I have carefully wagered that one candy bar at the store is the lesser of two evils when a tantrum is involved, even though I am fully aware that I am succumbing to bad parenting. Let's see . . . I pack fruit snacks in MY lunch, I have been known to only paint the first two toenails on each foot if I am wearing open-toe heels and have run out of time, and I choose purses for their maximum capacity rather than style. The list goes on, but I think that you get the point. Here is a typical day in my perpetual quest for dignity . . .

Morning: I am a little tired, but I wake up, I turn off the alarm, and I look forward to what the day may hold. I prepare myself for the challenges that will inevitably cross my path and I drink my coffee with an optimistic spirit. I casually ignore the small reminders that chaos surrounds me: the random tennis shoe in the middle of the dining room, the nerf gun bullets next to my glass figurines on the highest shelf, and the crayons and paper all over the counter. I kiss my husband and kids goodbye and head to work with dignity, ready to take on the day.


Afternoon: I am tired. My pride has been shaken. I wonder why my students don't share my enthusiasm over poetry analysis. I did my best to show my excitement over the various adjectives that can be used to describe tone, but the blank stares rattle my esteem a bit. Okay, so it doesn't help matters when I call on the student who finally raises her hand and all she has to say is, "Mrs. Dayus, your hair looked much better yesterday." Now that I think about it, teaching most of fifth period with a marker smudge on my nose did not do wonders for my self-esteem, either. But it is the afternoon, so I have enough of the day left to muster up my energy and continue in my pursuit of dignity.

Evening: I am really tired. When I get home there are happy faces greeting me and I know there is hope. My senses are revived as I transition from the sound of school bells and busy halls to the noise that my house produces: a Baby Einstein video, the dryer, the barking dog. I am ready to make dinner and settle in for the evening. But wait, there is Tae Kwon Do and then we have Open House at the Preschool, and we are out of juice, pull-ups, and milk, and we need to call the doctor's office before they close . . . So the chaos takes over and my sanity slips through my fingers like the string of a kite. I trip over that same shoe in the middle of the dining room and I take a deep breath. My trek up the stairs reminds me about those nerf bullets next to my precious figurines, and the sight of them is a little more irritating than it was this morning. I confiscate all Nerf guns and place them in the Time-Out Arsenal that exists on the top shelf of our closet. We are late for Tae Kwon Do, we miss the Doctor at the office, and we barely sit down to eat as a family.

Night: Is there even any hope of ending this day?!?!?! I am SOOOO TIRED!!! Bathtime, booktime, songtime, kisstime. Everyone is in bed. My husband and I trudge to the end of the hall, push all the unfolded laundry off our bed with one exhausted swipe of an arm and collapse. I remember the day and all the pieces of self-respect that were stolen from me. After a few minutes, the kids are all asleep. The baby is sleeping soundly, my six-year-old looks precious in his Mario Brother pajamas, my four-year-old is already sprawled out and contorted, but peaceful and sweet, and my eight-year-old is smiling in her sleep, most likely dreaming up some scheme that will amaze or scare us tomorrow. As I fall asleep, I try to think of WHAT was actually accomplished in the day. While my pride is in need of repair, I focus on the fact that my kids are happy, warm, and safe.

At times, I feel like a character in the movie Groundhog Day. Each day I watch the ideal version of myself transform into someone I don't recognize. At the end of each day, I come to the same conclusion: my kids don't need my pride, they need me to be a good mom. And then the day happens all over again.

I will end this entry with a recent example. Last week I ran a 5K. I am really proud with my final results, my time, and the fact that I pushed myself to train. I ran a good race. I knew that my kids were waiting at the finish line with my wonderful and supportive husband. I was about fifty-feet from the finish line when I twisted my ankle and fell. I mean, I REALLY ate it. In retrospect, I am sure that it looked hysterical. I tried to ignore my freshly skinned knees, sore ankle, and jammed thumb and I got up and finished the race. Really???? I just couldn't finish the race with the pride that I deserved for having run it in the first place? No, that would have been too easy. However, my kids did not see me fall, they just saw their mom finish the run. They saw me take on a challenge and complete it. They really had no interest in watching me bask in dignity and self-respect. Actually, when all is said and done, seeing their home-made signs and feeling their tight little hugs around my legs was enough to make me realize that I did not need to watch myself bask in dignity and self-respect, either.

I am getting used to humility. More importantly, I am constantly shifting my understanding of pride. I am learning that my definition of dignity is really the quality of being worthy of esteem or respect DESPITE food stains, half-painted toes, obvious insanity, and skinned knees..