Am I doing it right, when it is ‘wrong’?

As a child if you had asked me what I wanted from life I would have given you the following list:

A horse

to be a ballerina

to get married in a wedding dress with lace and a veil and a train.

to drive a bright blue car, or pink, possibly with sparkles

A yellow/chocolate labrador

children-  maybe 2… or 4 – I dont like odd numbers

a house all of my own, probably decorated in pink and sparkles

to be happy, not like mum who seems to find a problem with everything.

Sometimes I wonder am I doing anything the right way? As the ‘runt’ of the family I always did what I wanted, even if it didnt fit the mould of the family. I had children, then went to university, then got married… then divorced, then got my house. This resulted in my family viewing me as the ‘difficult one’, and in not so many words – ‘the failure’ whom they were constantly embarassed by.

I think about how I do things. I act spontaneously without much thought about results. I do it because thats what I want, its what my thoughtless self deems desirable at the time, and then I live with the result. The majority of the time, the results end up pretty good. My mum always says I have some extra stroke of luck and life always works out in my favour, despite me tempting it at every chance to prove me wrong. Then I start to think about what would have happened if i had followed the ‘right’ path. I probably would never have obtained my degree or masters – having left school at 16, straight into admin jobs that lead nowhere. I didn’t have the motivation or determination to carry on studying at that age. I only discovered that when I have my first child and wanted better for them. My sister was the golden child, doing everything in the right order, getting a degree in a good secter, working for a well respected firm, not having a baby out of wedlock. etc etc.

I might have gotten married, eventually. It was always drummed into me that that’s what we do as we get older. We work in a good job so that we can find a good husband, have kids, raise them well and blah blah blah! When I had my first child, my family told me “good luck finding a decent man who wants to marry you now, with the burden of a child. So I proved them wrong, for a while.

I probably would have had a more than healthy social life – I was always very bubbly and the first one to talk to new people when in a crowd. You could put me in a group of complete strangers and I would probably talk to them all eventually. A skill which has carried me through life I think. My mum often tells me how she admires my social skills and wishes she could be more like that.

I possibly would never have had my children. In fact they would deffinately not be the children I have now, even if I did have kids eventually. If I was diagnosed with MS earlier I would have chosen not to have them at all.  But I suppose children of some kind (furry, adopted, ivf)  would have been inevitable, because I am naturally caring. I need someone or something to look after. That has become my role in the family. I look after the people who have spent their life looking after me, and even those that didn’t. I spent many years trying to help my husband so much, being dragged so deep into his issues, that I lost myself entirely. It took my life being turned upside down to realise that was not how life was supposed to be.

So, now I sit in quiet moments,  wondering were my family right all along? Did I do it all wrong? I dread the next few hours sitting in a cold foyer waiting for one child or another to finish a club, or standing on the edge of a field, feining interest in their latest sports fixation. I know I should enjoy it because they do, and because they arent young forever – so enjoy it while they are; but I can’t, I tried. I count down the time until we can go back to the safety, warmth and comfort of home. Yet when I am home, I struggle to feel content with what I am doing, always feeling I could be doing more. Measuring constantly how I feel – energy wise- and what action I can manage next, with the knock on effect it will have for the next few days.

When was the last time you had to decide whether to have a shower or cook food, because you only have enough in you to manage one? Or prioiritse one child’s club over a social outing for the other, because doing both would mean that you couldn’t manage the basics for the rest of the week. There are random, unplannable moments, when I can spontaeously decide to go out and make memories with my kids because I miraculously found some energy hidden somewhere. However, this is always followed by instant regret because my body tricked me into taking tomorrows energy. I fall for it every single time.

I often wonder is there a set amount of time our hearts beat, and once that quota is reached, we are finished. Is there a quota for steps? Did all those times I walked miles, or 15 years of ballet, steal steps I can’t take in the future? Did the years of walking on edges of walls as a child, with my arms out to the side for balance, steal my ability to walk in a straight line now? Maybe I did everything the wrong way. Maybe I should have paced myself. Rationed my step quota, resisted making my heart beat faster with the rush of horseriding, or mind blowing sex. maybe I would still be able to do all the things I want to do. But maybe, I would not have lived a life. I would be sitting here miserable that I could walk and run and jump, but I didn’t want to because I was too scared to use up my quota.

So now I think, I did things my way. Which has to be the right way. Not in an arrogant way. Maybe my way was always right. I did things how they should have been done. With passion, and determination. I did things on my terms, with no one to blame, or thank, but myself. It may not have been the way my mum would have wanted, or my teachers suggested. But I did it. And I succeeded in what I wanted from life. I achieved the majority of my list. Meanwhile my golden child sister looks back in regret, wishing she had done things differently. She missed out on the life she had wanted, trying to fit the mould of the family. Sometimes building resentment that I did everything the wrong way and ended up more content than her. Which is why my children will never be forced into a mould. If they choose to be happy over society’s expectations, let them. As long as they are happy and healthy.

I hope my theory on life quotas is wrong, but I know that my style of living life is not. It took this entry to realise that.